


Bad Habits: A Rocky Horror Picture Show Fanfiction.

by AlmaOakley



Category: Rocky Horror Picture Show, The Rocky Horror Show - O'Brien
Genre: Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Mystery, Romance, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2019-12-27 01:16:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18293891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmaOakley/pseuds/AlmaOakley
Summary: Hello! Alma here. Some very good friend encouraged me to take the plunge and transfer this ongoing fic from it’s original home on FanFiction.net, where you can access the up to date version!Thanks for clicking, I hope you enjoy the read!





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Alma here. Some very good friend encouraged me to take the plunge and transfer this ongoing fic from it’s original home on FanFiction.net, where you can access the up to date version! 
> 
> Thanks for clicking, I hope you enjoy the read!

' _You'll be crushed.'_

_Frank rolled his eyes and put his feet up on the dining room table, a glass of iced whiskey in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. 'What are you blathering on about now, Riff Raff?' Tired, irritable, and in a bit of a developmental slump, he was already bored with this conversation._

_'When you remember,' the handyman replied from his post at the overhead cabinet, without turning around to properly address his master. 'When you realise who she is, and what you've done to her, it'll destroy you.'_

* * *

'Sprite, are you even listening to me?

She looked up, taking one earphone out and rubbing her eye.

'So sorry, I didn't mean to be rude, just didn't get much sleep last night, that's all.' She pursed her lips before deciding to continue. 'Had to listen to my mother royally fuck another stranger and fight him out the house when he realised she wouldn't give him any of her money.'

In any other context, this blunt, emotionless disclosure of privacy would've caused disapproval or at least a grimace, but here they just laughed. Running with the richest kids in the country came with stories much worse. In fact, hers were always the tamest of the whole school.

Truthfully, this was only half the reason for her bad mood. If anybody ever entertained the thought of rich kids actually having problems, they'd soon find out that she was completely and unconditionally trapped.

She sat in school, second in the whole country for standards, education and extortionate bills every term, stifled by spoiled brats who'd never earned honest money in their lives and neither had their parents, no doubt. Sons and daughters of fashion designers, bank managers and music legends joined her every day for no reason other than to appear 'normal' and 'humble' to the general public.

Incentivised with two hundred dollars for passing every class led to a whole building full of ungrateful snobs. Even the lecturers had little time for their jobs - they knew every kid in the school would end up far better off than them regardless of whether they turned up for class or not, this made them incredibly bitter, and they all got treated the same.

She only had three real friends - everybody else simpered and pandered to her every need to try and get some money, or even just to go to her house. She was disgusted by the materialistic nature of her house; all these years later she still refused to call it her home. Homes are supposed to be cosy, safe places to share your thoughts in confidence and have fun with friends. Five acres, three pools and CCTV in every room achieved the exact opposite of that.

She'd give anything to go back to the simpler times, before her downtrodden, working-class mother joined her friends to a trip to New York and somehow managed to seduce the manager of the tenth largest bank in the whole world. He bribed her extortionate amounts to keep the affair under wraps. She got the money and he kept his reputation. She didn't keep a word of her promise, the press lapped it up and to this day she still got recognised for being 'her' daughter.

The entitlement had gone straight to her mother's head. She was out partying every night, dining on oysters and caviar, waking up every morning with a hangover worse than the last. She didn't have a mother anymore. She was lucky if she saw her to be grilled about schoolwork or shamed for not having a boyfriend once a month. The usual bullying increased tenfold, a whore of a mother made her a much bigger target that she had already been for her ridiculous name.

Sprite was only a nickname - the story of which was too embarrassing to even think about. Only a handful of people knew her real name, and that was credit owed to her father, a man she'd never met. The last time he ever saw her mother was to sign the birth certificate, and Celeste Sanjati was born. Fucking ew. Celeste was bad enough, but Sanjati? She knew exactly why they'd chosen it. She could hear the conversation now.

_'Give her something unusual, exotic, eccentric. Just like her father.'_ Followed by excruciatingly flirtatious laughter, in a last-ditch attempt to cure his fear of commitment.

' _She needs something that will help her stand out amongst all of her little school friends. Make them intimidated before they even see her. Something that will let people know who she is, and more importantly, whether they stand a chance with her.'_

One quick Google search and it was all over.

Of course, she didn't _really_ know how it happened, but in her head that sounded just like the wet, desperate thing her mother would croon, followed by the egotistical bullshit that apparently spewed from her father's' lips. She certainly didn't stand out anymore, in fact, her name was the drabbest of all. Sorry, dad, she thought to herself bitterly.

She sifted through this melodramatic therapy session in just a few seconds, before turning her attention back to her friends. Just to evidentiate her point, her three closest friends consisted of a dark haired girl with big eyes named Zadie, a handsome, well-read boy named Arlo and a girl nobody quite knew how she came to attend the school named Remi.

'My uncle's having a huge party tonight and I'm trying to rally a gang to accompany me so I don't go out of my mind.' Zadie widened her large eyes for emphasis, flipping her gorgeous sheen of black hair as she spoke.

One thing she couldn't complain about was the parties. Every day someone's family member no matter how distant they may be was having a huge blow-out, and there was nothing better than the prospect of getting completely smashed. Now, she was never one for generalisation, but literally every party she had been to featured grown men and woman who were perfectly happy serving alcohol to anyone who walked in the door. In fact, that's how she'd gotten her nickname.

The first party she'd been to (or 'gathering' as she was instructed to call it, lest her mother threw a fit - until she stopped caring, that is), was when she was twelve years old. A middle-aged woman had taken her by the arm with a promise to look after her and offered her a drink, to which she'd confidently asked for a Sprite. The entire venue absolutely rioted. There was no worse way to let everyone know how clueless she really was. They laughed about it all night, and the name stuck.

'I've been looking for an excuse to get hammered all week. What time should we get there?'

Zadie scrolled through her phone. 'Well he said he still has most of his guests there from last night, so we could probably just go there now. After we change of course.' They all looked down in disgust at their mustard yellow uniforms. She looked to the front of the classroom. The obnoxious grandfather clock told her it was twelve o'clock, and she noticed that the lecturer wasn't even there - she vaguely remembered hearing the door close as she absentmindedly drew on the back of her hand.

On the way out they passed two teachers and four cleaners, and not one of them even looked concerned.

'Complete waste of fucking time being here.' Zadie muttered. 'All four of us could die tomorrow and they'd probably read a poem in tutorial.'

Sprite snickered into her sleeve, but she kind of had to laugh, otherwise, she'd cry. She couldn't imagine ever living a life where she wasn't just 'coping' all the time. It was slowly crushing her.

They didn't live too far away from the school, or from each other, so they all went to their separate houses. She entered the code to open the gate and dropped her Balenziaga in the doorway before checking the CCTV in the kitchen. She didn't check it properly, or as often as she should, she knew that. She climbed two flights to her bathroom and stepped into the shower. Powerful jets of water soaked her from all sides as she massaged her scalp and shaved her legs. She stared dejectedly at her wardrobe: racks upon racks of designer clothing picked out by her mother.

She knew these parties were never formal affairs. One time Arlo had woken her up in the middle of the night and they'd literally turned up in their pyjamas. So why the fuck was it still so difficult picking out an outfit?

She pulled out a slightly oversized grey t-shirt, denim booty shorts and sparkly trainers. The outfit alone probably came to over a grand, she felt quite sick as she slipped it over her head. She dried her hair and reapplied her makeup and called her chauffeur to come and pick her up.

She cracked open two beers and downed them one after the other. There was an unofficial competition between them to see who could end up worse at the end of every event. She knew it was really bad, and pre-drinks were supposed to be a group affair to nobody could cheat, but for some reason, she was determined to win tonight.

It was another fifteen minutes before she heard the Lamborghini crunch the gravel outside. She grabbed a clutch and headed out, entering the code to lock the gate. Her chauffeur, Ralph, was one of the only members of staff that she actually liked, and Sprite smiled warmly at him as she got in.

'Morning, Celie.' He'd affectionately shortened her legal name, and she loved him for it.

'Morning, Ralph. To the Elwood manor today. Actually quite looking forward to this one.' She confessed.

'Another party?' He asked, raising an eyebrow at the rearview mirror. 'Didn't he just have one yesterday?'

'Yeah, I think so. Probably not even another one, just last nights never finished.'

She secretly dreaded asking to be taken to the manor. A huge country estate in the middle of absolutely nowhere, and it was nearly impossible to find. A good forty-five minutes away the last quarter consisted exclusively of dirt roads and hedges, no signs, other cars, or even other people to help you find it. There's no sign of civilisation anywhere, it suddenly just appears right in front of you.

She felt awful for Ralph having to find his own way back. It was just past one o'clock when the pulled up alongside the Mercedes and Ferraris and Morgans. Zadie was just getting out of her car when they arrived. Sprite thanked him and told him she'd be getting a lift back. She lied but really didn't want to make him come out there at stupid o'clock in the morning. Her mother would have no problems making such demands.

She got out and hugged her friend. They looked practically the same, except Zadie's makeup was a lot more dramatic. On the pull tonight. Zadie reached out and rang the loud, ominous doorbell. The door flew open in seconds to reveal the most wonderfully eccentric man she'd ever known.

Zadie's uncle didn't exactly do well for defying stereotypes. He was gay, promiscuous and completely insane. Anyone who's brave enough to spend the night knew he liked to scare the shit out of you - mostly after you'd fallen asleep. He'd leave horrible Halloween decorations hanging from the ceiling fan and shriek at the top of his lungs, pour crickets on you in the shower and leave buckets of green slime teetering on the shelves in the wardrobe.

Today, he wore an obnoxiously bright, multicoloured woolly jumper, peacock patterned loose trousers with suspenders and no shoes. Complete with pince-nez glasses, mad scientist hair and a comedy sketch moustache, he was the pinnacle of rich weirdos.

'Sprite, my darling, how are you?' He cried, yanking her through the door and into his chest. She clutched on to him to steady herself before she was practically shoved out of the way. Zadie received the same treatment and they giggled breathlessly into the main living area. Stone floors, high ceilings and portraits that watched you wherever you went had been modernised by the huge bar, multitude of rugs and a small army of party guests. Some weird rock opera track blared from the speakers (embedded in the wall somewhere no doubt), and Sprite had to scream to be heard as she greeted her many acquaintances who were already too smashed to care.

They explored and found their friends quickly. Arlo was in the attic intensely making out with a girl, and Remi was crying to a sympathetic older man in the bathtub about getting the white Rolex for Christmas instead of the black one. Zadie pulled Sprite back downstairs and poured them each four shots of tequila.

'Cheers.' Zadie clinked her glass against hers.

'To one in the afternoon.' Sprite toasted and knocked her drink back.

* * *

All five of them clambered into the Mercedes, sopping wet and smashed beyond comprehension. Sprite had never felt so ill. Her head pounded and swam lazily, ears ringing and eyes too heavy to keep open for more than one second at a time. She screamed until she could sit down, had enough common sense to wear her seatbelt, opened the car window and vomited out on to the floor. She heard a distant roaring of laughter, and despite the state she was in, she couldn't bring herself to regret anything she did.

Remi desperately tried to put the keys in the ignition but was just stabbing them aimlessly at thin air. She was vaguely aware of the other three in the back, shouting, singing, moaning. Arlo's girl had taken her top off in his arms. It was midnight: eleven hours of non-stop drinking has rendered them all useless.

'This isn't even my car, isn't it funny?' Remi slurred, burping loudly as she laughed. The smell of alcohol and pizza hit Sprite in the face and she threw up a little in her mouth. 'I just found the keys on the floor, so they obviously wanted someone to use their car to get home, isn't that thoughtful?'

The engine roared to life and they meandered down the dirt road. Now, even in her state, Sprite knew this was incredibly dangerous, not to mention illegal. No one had a clue where they were going, the slut was on Arlo's lap and Remi wasn't even looking at the road, she was crying about having dried sick on her top. She should probably say something but was too tired to really care at the moment. Maybe I'll take a nap and address this in the morning, she thought to herself, with a big, unattractive yawn.

They bounced along the road horrendously, three in the back screaming and laughing like they were on a roller coaster. Zadie was sprawled out across them, half asleep and groaning. Arlo tried to play with her hair but was almost sick on her instead. They bounced so hard the slut fell into the door and it opened. With no support, she tipped forward and came this close to falling out on to the road at however many miles an hour. She hollered and slammed it shut, almost breaking the window in the process. Sprite put her hand on Remi's sweaty shoulder.

'At least wait until the rain stops.' She wasn't sure what actually came out of her mouth, but that's what she'd intended to say. She was right, though. Fat raindrops hammered down in sheets, and it was only then she realised they'd gone the whole way without wipers or lights.

Remi sighed and let go of the steering wheel. In the blessed silence, Sprite leaned against the delightfully cool window and fell asleep.

A huge crash of thunder woke her with a scream. She'd jumped a foot in the air and her chest hurt from the speed of her heart. It was two in the morning: she'd slept for over two hours.

Everyone in the car had gone. Instantly she felt a sinking feeling. She checked her phone - dangerously low battery - and saw the usual texts inviting her for a Starbucks, asking her opinion on designers, and one from her mother, sent at five which read: Hosting. Don't come home. But nothing from her friends. The lovebirds probably went to fuck and Remi probably went with Zadie to piss somewhere. Another fifteen minutes passed before she started to get worried.

Judgement clouded by alcohol, she got out and began to look for them. She trekked through the mud, raining harder than ever for a few minutes before she took her shoes off. They were Louboutin's, she was not about to wreck them. Her bare feet squelched in the wet mud, fighting to keep from vomiting at the feeling of the mud squeezing between her toes.

She stopped counting how many times she'd slipped after seven. She'd been walking for ages and still had no sign of them. They were probably in the same situation as her. Her hands and knees were slimy and caked with mud, wet hair plastered to her face. Just as she was either about to throw a tantrum or call the police, she saw a castle. Beautiful, grand, and most importantly, warm. It made sense; this area was full of rich weirdos. There were no lights on and no cars parked in front, but it was worth a try.

She gritted her teeth and pixie danced across the gravel on her bare feet. She leaned against the door and it swung open. She dropped to one knee in the doorway and scrambled upright. She stood there for a moment, contemplating whether she should go in. Another crash of thunder sent shivers down her spine and she stepped in, closing the door behind her.

At first glance, someone definitely lived here, but on closer inspection perhaps they didn't. It was extremely cluttered, but in a nice way, antiques crammed on to every surface, china plates in the sink and faded ornate rugs - but everything was coated in a thick layer of dust as if the owners hadn't been here for quite some time. It wasn't uncommon for their kind to own many homes across the world, she assumed that was the case here. But then, why was the door unlocked?

It was dark, spacious, and fucking terrifying. Candelabras created dark shadows that concealed the furthest corners and threw menacing shapes on the walls. She couldn't relax, waiting for something to jump out at her. Or at least, a very angry homeowner to shove her back out in the rain.

She could barely stand on the smooth wood floor, and she was too scared to explore thoroughly so she slowly ascended the carpeted stairs. The dark wood bannisters gleamed in the dim light as she walked, shaking terribly. She walked as slowly as she could on the second-floor corridor, terrified that it would creak under her weight. A bright yellow line shone from the crack under one of the doors. She crept closer and leaned her head against the wood. She heard very loud creaking and laughing and moaning. The fucking sluts had snuck off to have a threesome at the neighbours.

She slammed her fist against the door, took a deep breath and screamed 'I know you're in there!' In the way, only a drunkard could. Sprite half fell back down the stairs. She wasn't sure where she was planning to go, but just as she pulled the door open her phone sounded.

_Went to get you a blanket and some water. Where are you? R._

She stared at her phone, dumbfounded. All that time and they'd been finding her something to drink? Five minutes longer and she'd be sat in the warm car with Remi. Sprite's drunken mind questioned one crucial thing: who was fucking upstairs?

She felt like she might cry. She tried to tell herself it wasn't that bad, but it really was. She'd pounded on the door in the middle of a passionate exchange between two completely estranged lovers. The man and wife of the house, no doubt. How was she going to talk her way out of this one? She decided to at least see if they were bothered or not and went back upstairs to find the door open and the lights off. Oh, shit.

She felt blindly through the rest of the dark house, using the walls for support. She was too scared to use the torch on her phone in case she gave herself away. She wouldn't be able to sleep tonight if she didn't at least try to apologise, but every door she'd tried had been locked. Finally, the third-floor corridor offered some salvation as one of the doors opened at her push.

She couldn't see anything, but she knew she was in a very grand bedroom. As her eyes adjusted she could just make out a four poster bed and a very large dresser with a huge mirror, and she found the wardrobe by nearly killing herself on it as she raced in.

She went straight to the dresser, searching in all the drawers. They had her shoes, (she'd accidentally dropped them on her way down the stairs and no way was she going back out there barefoot again). Her sobriety had increased significantly, and she decided to scrap the apology and get the fuck out of there. She desperately searched through the piles of women's lingerie but couldn't find anything of hers. She hissed in exasperation, grabbed her hair and straightened up.

She felt a sickening numbness spread throughout her entire body when she saw the dark figure leaning against the wardrobe.

'Are you lost, little mouse?'

She fainted.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thursday’s and Sunday’s? An upload schedule? More likely than you think. 
> 
> Thanks so much for the comments and kudos! It really encouraged me as I was So Nervous™️. 
> 
> Keep an eye out for your friendly neighbourhood hot dog xoxo

The first indication that Sprite might not have been brutally murdered in a scenario fit for the silver screen was the sound of bells ringing.

A sweet, sonorous tone, it was quite relaxing. It wasn't a huge dull clang like that of Notredame, it was a much more twinkly noise, perhaps associated with mythical woodland creatures or the check-in desk at a hotel.

She didn't know who was making the noise or where it was coming from. It sounded far away, and soon after came the thick, hazed vibrations from multiple voices. There seemed to be a lot of people down there - wherever there was, she assumed she was probably upstairs somewhere - and she let the gentle noises revive her back into reality.

With the vague confirmation that she was, in fact, alive and slowly waking up, she came to realise that she was lying in a large, outrageously comfortable bed. Multiple pillows supported her head and the covers were very thick. She would have made to sit up if she hadn't been wrapped right up to her neck under the heavy covers, her arms stuck by her sides. She'd been treated like a hospital patient, and rather felt like one too, for she'd been conscious long enough to realise she was awake, and she had yet to open her eyes.

She must've fallen asleep at the manor. That's the only explanation for it. She was a notoriously tired drunk, and someone (presumably Arlo, he was always taking care of them) had taken the liberty of putting her up for the night. She'd had a crazy, alcohol-induced lucid dream which was up there with the most terrifying thing she'd ever experienced, but that was okay now because none of it was real, she was safe and warm, surrounded by people she knew and loved.

If only she could open her eyes.

The hiking could've been dreamt up, the hangover could not. Her head pounded and swam lazily, she was at that awful stage where one's absolutely starving but the mere thought of food churns one's stomach, and her throat was dry, sore, and scratchy.

Sprite knew that opening her eyes would make everything ten times worse. The most appealing option was to go back to sleep and let the other overnight guests assume she'd never woken up in the first place, but her mind was already far too restless to sleep.

As if on cue, the door opened.

Someone pushed it open very slowly and carefully (they thought Sprite was still sleeping as she had fake-breathed and even went as far as to snore slightly), and quietly made their way over to her bed. She could sense that someone was standing over her (please go away and let me wake up in my own time!) and she tried really hard not to smile. If she kept it up for a few more minutes they'd go away.

An incredibly gentle hand pressed against her forehead followed by a concerned sigh. They lightly brushed their fingers across her cheek (the woman Sprite'd earned her nickname from was famous for her ridiculously long nails. Perhaps it was her who had one to check on her), and carefully pressed two fingers against the side of her neck.

Okay, this was getting weird. What was going on?'

She pretended to stir slightly and the fingers abruptly left. She didn't miss the short gasp that precluded the clump-clump-clump of chunky heels rushing across a hardwood floor. The door eventually clicked shut.

More bell ringing, more voices.

Sprite dared to open her eyes. Everything happened just as she'd predicted. The shock of intense sunlight made her jolt from the unexpected sensory onslaught and screwed her eyes shut. The sudden movement made her stomach lurch and she heard it all gurgling around in there. She had to sit still with her eyes closed (gently, this time) to make sure she wouldn't be sick. She waited for the room to stop tilting and leering around her before she eased her eyes open again. Upon doing so, staring directly at the lavishly-draped window, Sprite realised that the pleasant ringing sounds weren't bells at all. They were wind chimes.

And if there was one thing the lord of the Elwood manner hated more than anything, it was wind chimes.

The reality of the situation began to dawn on her. Each new observation washed over her in a wave of all-encompassing fear. When she saw that the window was less of a window and more of a glass wall, which the Elwood manner definitely did not have. When she noticed the view featured rolling green hills as far as the eye could see when they Elwood manner was surrounded by wind turbines. When she sat up and pulled herself free of the restricting covers, only to see that they were a silky deep black, patterned with gold, whimsical swirls. When she didn't recognise a single feature in the entire bedroom (especially not the statuettes of naked marble boys standing atop their pedestals in their concave homes in the walls in all their immodest glory), and - and this is the game-changer, ladies and gents - when she saw her reflection staring back at her through the mirrored doors of the wardrobe, and instantly caught sight of a rather unattractive egg on her head. Bruised, swollen, as now that she was aware of it, incredibly sore.

That could only mean one thing: it wasn't a dream. Everything she thought had happened had actually happened. It was all real, there was no escaping from it, and now she sat in a complete stranger's bed in an extremely remote location, and no one even knew she was here.

Sprite's fight or flight response kicked in, and she did the only feasible thing she could think of: she screamed.

She took a deep lungful of air and screamed at the top of her voice. All her senses kicked in at once and suddenly she didn't quite know what to do with herself so she did a little bit of everything. She tasted her tears but she didn't feel them, her breathing became shallow and hitched, she grabbed the covers and yanked them over her head.

All of her friends once confessed that they used to think monsters, ghosts and murderers were physically incapable of moving the covers away so they could kill you. As long as they had their covers, they were safe. No matter how childish the logic was, Sprite put all of her faith in that method now.

The door opened once again, except this time it was pushed so hard that it slammed against the wall. The same clump-clump-clump was back, now it was full of intent and urgency. They pulled up a chair beside the bed. The close proximity of whoever the fuck she'd fallen into the hands of only freaked her out more, causing her to kick harder and scream louder. She waited to hear a gunshot, the slash of a knife, even shouting and taunting would've been more anticipated than what actually happened.

'Everything's alright, my darling, you're perfectly safe now, I promise.'

Sprite fell silent immediately. Not because she was reassured, or even calm. She stopped because she was shocked. She was completely and utterly dumbfounded as to how respectful and perfectly reasonable-voiced her saviour/captor was. An adult male, articulate and sophisticated. As sexist as she knew it was, the fact that it was a man made the comment a lot less soothing than it was intended to be. That, and he was one of those slimy men that called her 'darling' and 'sweetheart' all the time. She was desperate for familiarity, but not that desperate. His Belgravia accent was so strong she might've suspected he was putting it on if she hadn't been otherwise scared for her life.

'You come out when you're ready, dear, I understand this must be quite scary. I'm not going to hurt you, I can promise you that, however, there are a few questions is like to ask you when you feel comfortable enough to talk to me. In the meantime, I'll talk and you listen.'

Sprite was still too frozen to say anything. Her leg was beginning to cramp and she was sick of breathing this steal air, but she just couldn't get her body to respond to anything.

'Do you think you could try looking at me now? You don't have to say anything, you don't even have to be polite, just let me see you're alright. Please, darling, cross my heart and hope to die, you are safe now. I only want to help you, dear, please trust me on that.'

Sprite was slightly taken aback by the intensity of his words, and she had begun to feel quite childish and guilty for assuming the worst even after he'd taken her in from the rain and given her a warm bed for the night. She took a deep breath of (hot) air, said a quick prayer and slowly lowered the rim of the covers just enough to peek timidly over the top.

If Sprite was dumbfounded before, she was all but brain-dead now. She was immediately presented with a pair of large grey eyes that burned with the deepest sympathy and the greatest concern. Just in the split second where she looked directly into his eyes before she took in the rest of him, she noticed how they contained flecks of brown and gold, changing from solid grey to hues of blue and green in the light. She always thought that her eyes were the most aesthetically pleasing. She felt rather one-upped now.

Observing the rest of his appearance was far less pleasing. The first thing she noticed was his hair. Thick, the blackest of blacks and a direct homage to everyone who touched one of those glowing orbs in the science fiction films. Or an electric fence in real life. It took Sprite far too long to realise that his eyes weren't particularly intense because of the light or because of her heightened senses. His eyes popped right out because they were framed by a hooded eyelid painted with dark shades of eyeshadow. Pigmented, heavy, and blended to perfection. The black tight lining only made his eyes seem even more bright, complete with stacked false eyelashes and a serious case of loose glitter fallout. He'd drawn his eyebrows on thin and ridiculously arched in what appeared to be kohl pencil (Sharpie?) and seemed to use the same product to draw way above his natural lip line and fill it in with red lipstick that Sprite could never hope to wear without getting it all over her teeth. The caked-on, pale foundation made everything stand out even more if that was possible. He did have fierce contour though and wore enough highlighter for Stevie Wonder to see him coming.

His outfit consisted of a black, shimmery corset under a dark denim jacket complete with I'm-thirteen-and-normal-people-scare-me inspired patches, garters, underwear that looked very much like a pair Sprite herself owned, and frightfully high silver platforms that sparkled aggressively and made a disco ball effect on the walls.

His entire character screamed pantomime. She didn't quite know how to react. All her life she thought she knew what eccentric meant, how not to judge a book by its cover and all that. She was genuinely scared to open her mouth in case she reflexively threw an insult at him.

She half-expected the cameras to come out and for someone to admit they'd been playing with her. But, the tears she was holding back were less of fear and more of complete and utter relief.

If the rest of the house was anything like the room she sat in now, that could only mean one thing: he was filthy rich. She was rich too, as much as she detested declaring it, even to herself. In her community, everyone knew everyone else. Name dropping was the fastest way to the top apart from legitimate money and sex. He must know someone, anyone with the slightest connection to her. This helped her settle down enough to be able to sit up properly and stop cowering under the covers like a child.

He gave her a beaming smile, showing a perfect set of gleaming white teeth. Was everything about this man supposed to make her feel like a potato or what.

'There she is.' His voice was even softer than hers would've been (if she could speak) but she still jumped. He hung his head slightly as he tried to suppress his laughter, took her hand and kissed the back of it before holding it firmly between his own. 'You've had quite the adventure, little mouse.'

Oh, great. Five seconds in and she'd already earned a sickly sweet pet name for sneaking around in the middle of the night like a fucking nut-job.

She opened her mouth to respond but she couldn't quite get the words out. She battled with herself for a few moments before he gave her hand a comforting squeeze and smiled kindly at her.

'Come on now, darling I might look scary, but I'm not going to hurt you.' Sprite guessed she wasn't supposed to hear the irritated 'as I keep saying,' muttered under his breath. She instantly felt awful and made to apologise, but he merely gave her an understanding look and silenced her with a gesture of his hand. 'Why don't you start by telling me your name?'

She went to answer, but nothing came out. She cleared her throat lightly and still only managed to whisper 'I'm Sprite.'

Oh, perfect. As a force of habit, she'd given her childish nickname in favour of her real name. Not only did she seem cowardly, uncooperative and ungrateful, she now sounded like she was creating fanciful names for herself.

He gave her a look which indisputably confirmed everything she'd just thought - he didn't believe her - but he gave a light sigh and smiled at her again.

'It's a pleasure to meet you, Sprite.' He raised an eyebrow slightly at the vocalisation of her name. Almost as if she didn't already know she'd messed up. 'You took quite the spill,' he said, a lot more seriously now. 'What do you remember?'

'Well...' There was no point lying, she might as well tell him everything that happened. 'I was at a party,' she began, and his face lightened considerably at how quickly she cooperated. 'And obviously, there was a lot of alcohol. We all got quite drunk - very drunk, then, don't look at me like that - and then there's a complete blank spot in my memory. I've no idea how I got out in the rain but I think I was looking for my friends. I don't know how long I was walking for, but eventually, I found your castle and...well, I guess you know the rest.' She hung her head as she finished her recollection, the humiliation and embarrassment of the situation finally hitting her.

'You've got nothing to be embarrassed about, dear.' He seemed to read her mind. Or at least see the one or two tears that she couldn't hold in. 'We've all been there. If this is the worst mistake you're going to make, then you're practically a saint.'

Sprite spluttered a laugh as she plucked up the courage to ask him another question. 'How - how long was I out for? What happened after I collapsed?'

He looked at his lap, shaking his head and smiling gently. 'I almost thought you weren't going to ask that. I expected you to be scared, but I never expected you to faint. I must admit, it was a lot easier to get you cleaned up and into a proper bed for the night. I checked your head, it'll be sore for a few days and quite unsightly, but there are no worries there. You did, however, keep waking up throughout the night. You were very distressed, understandably, but I knew you wouldn't remember any of it in the morning. I did what I had to calm you down, but of course, I didn't do anything indecent towards you. You went off for the last time at about five in the morning and you've been sound ever since. Until now.'' He added with another dashing smile, winking at her.

Sprite stared back at him for a second. '...This definitely isn't a dream, then?'

He laughed and shook his head, kissing her hand again. 'I'm afraid not, darling, this is all real, I assure you.'

Sprite finally felt brave enough to return the smile and he easily could've exploded with happiness.

'So...so where is this? Where am I now? Actually, who are you? I just realised I haven't asked that.' Her small laugh wasn't forced, for the first time in...well, forever.

He literally appeared to be on cloud nine with how much more relaxed she had become. Well, you're in my house. My name is Frank-N-Furter, but that's a bit of a mouthful, so you can call me Frank.'

So a refreshing lemon and lime flavoured soft drink was so implausible but a classic German sausage wasn't? Okay then.

Sprite felt her eyes narrowing in scrutiny against her better judgment. She mouthed ' _Mister...missus..._ ' at him as she was too embarrassed to make a big deal out of it.

He mouthed ' _doctor..._ ', pulling the exact same facial expression as her. It made her laugh, but her face betrayed her again as she felt her eyes widening in surprise.

He sent her another understanding look and said, 'A scientist, if you must be pedantic.'

Admittedly (terrifyingly?) that made a ridiculous amount of sense. Eccentric, reclusive masterminds that worked tirelessly to prove their groundbreaking theories, permanently unhinging themselves in the process.

Oh, God, Sprite, don't say that.

'Well,' his - Frank, she supposed she must call him now - brisk words snapped her out of her daydream. He untangled their hands and stood up, stretching his body to its full height. 'I've spent far to much time talking at you when you really should be focusing on your recovery. If you need to sleep some more, be my guest. My bathroom's just through there, use whatever you need. I'll have something for you to eat and drink soon.'

He leaned over her, and for one awful moment, she thought he was going to kiss her forehead. She let out a deep sigh of relief when he turned on the wall light above her head.

Reading her mind again, he shot backwards and gave her an intensely reproachful look. She watched as his hands slowly clenched to hold fistfuls of the covers. He turned and walked away so abruptly that she jumped, and all but froze in fear when he stopped in the doorway.

'Do you know how easy it would've been...', he muttered darkly, almost to himself. 'To touch you in your sleep?'

He was all the way across the room, leaning right over her in seconds. She let out a small scream and tried to cover her face but he held her wrists to the bed. 'I could've done anything to you last night. You were so drunk you couldn't even remember your own name.' He spat, glaring at her in a way that made her whole body shake. 'I could've kissed you, touched you, fucked you again and again, as many times as I wanted, but I didn't. It wasn't easy, don't get me wrong, especially with such a delicious thing like you in my bed all night. Instead, I sheltered you, consoled you, kept you safe and warm, offered you hospitality and I've been nothing but honest with you, and you _still_ think I'm dangerous?'

Sprite's eyes were like saucers now, she could feel it. She thought she might get a slap, she couldn't even disagree with it.

'I'll tell you something, little mouse, he almost sneered, placing a hand gently under her chin and tilting her head up to look right into his eyes, burning with rage and perhaps even a little hurt. 'You're a thing of beauty, but you've got some serious growing up to do.'

She understood everything now. Isolation could do things to a person. The doctor, transvestite, serial killer, whatever the fuck he was, was a lot of things.

Eccentric. Flamboyant. Sophisticated. Intelligent. Compassionate. Neurotic. Temperamental. And fucking insane.

She was suddenly very scared.

He roughly released her, giving her one last, hard stare and stalked out.

'Dinner's at five,' he muttered and slammed the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *fanfare ensues*
> 
> And we’re off! Woohoo! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, please don’t be afraid to leave comments/kudos - I’d love to hear what you think!
> 
> Until next time ;)


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yea every Thursday and Sunday lmao that happened. 
> 
> I’m back now! And I will aim to keep to the schedule. Your friendly neighbourhood rocky horror enthusiast had a bit of a moment but hopefully everything should be back to normal now.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who left comments and kudos since last time (the best Frank-N-Furter you’ve ever read??? I am HONOURED, sir!) and I hope you enjoy this one!

It took every ounce of self control Frank possessed to not violently throw every solid object in his wake. The rage he felt was indescribable, and had remained so for years, despite the constant influx of people who had attempted to coax, tempt, threaten the explanation out of him.

He'd been compared to a volcano numerous times throughout his life, and it was probably the only intelligent observation his native people ever made. His anger would lay dormant for months, sometimes years, and on the surface, to the shallow, ignorant minds of everyone else it appeared as nothing more than a beautiful, unpredictable and slightly intimidating phenomenon. Something they'd be equally proud and wary to call their own.

If anyone plucked up enough courage to scale the mountain, chase the storm or monitor the volcano, they'd find the hot, restless substance that bubbled below the surface, threatening to take lives and incinerate colonies at any moment. Only the most knowledgable, equipped and curious ones would consider it, and they came few and far between. He was surrounded by idiots who didn't even realise that that was an option.

When the inevitable eruption commenced, the oblivious ones couldn't merely run from it. They'd be utterly consumed by it. No hope for the ones who stood too close.

Which is why Frank was particularly livid with himself on this occasion. He'd allowed his mind to lull him into a false sense of dormancy for so long that he'd stupidly permitted himself to be alone in that room with her.

He was relatively alright at first, but something about the utter insolence of the mindless girl really set him off. He couldn't understand why anyone, let alone someone as young and full of life as her would ever put themselves in that level of jeopardy. He saw the rebellion that has once burned inside of himself, and for the short while that she was his responsibility, he would do everything in his power to steer her on a different path. Frank knew how spontaneity could permanently affect a person's life, even if it seemed adventurous and fun at first. He'd be damned before he let anyone else fall as hard as he did.

He was also irritated by how much she'd blatantly lied to him. He was human enough to appreciate that she must be scared out of her mind, and he'd did his best to relax and reassure her. He also completely understood the importance of maintaining anonymity in the company of a perfect stranger - but to refer to herself as Sprite was just ridiculous.

Admittedly it did suit her: she was significantly softer, sweeter, more elf-like than any other females he'd been in contact with, with her ice blonde hair and vivid blue eyes, but she flushed scarlet as soon as she said it, it really couldn't have been more obvious. He'd let her know she hadn't gotten away with lying, but decided not to take it further on account of him desperately trying to stay composed.

Frank had never been so appalled by the utter audacity of one person before, and he very nearly lost it. He didn't even want to think about what would've happened if the sight of her tears hadn't smacked him upside the head. He'd behaved in a perfectly respectable manner: he'd been kind and reassuring, soothing her when she got emotional, he held the drunken, traumatised thing in his arms, for God's sake, yet she still thought he had alternative motives. If she had woken up to a woman, or indeed, another man, she wouldn't have dared to consider such things, and that's what really infuriated him.

Words tumbled and hands groped and tears fell. In the split second that fury seized him, he managed to obliterate any and all hope of establishing trust between them.

Frank suffered terribly with his temper, but he'd been trying so hard to tackle it for so long, and he was not about to have it all ruined by some discriminatory, ungrateful little brat that didn't even deserve his presence, let alone his hospitality. In fact, he had a mind to go in there and give her a piece of his mind, teach the bitch a thing or two about respect, she'd certainly have a reason to be wary of him then-.

Luckily this time, Frank was able to realise that this was only his anger talking, and he had enough sense to detach his body from his mind, thus sparing himself the misery of mindlessly attacking such an exquisite little thing.

It settled over him slowly, as if on purpose to spite him. It let him know that no matter how long it took, or how hard he fought against it, it would always continue to seize complete control over him. He'd feel doused in it, and it would slowly congregate into an excruciating, barbed knot in his chest.

The pain, anger and frustration would be taken out by anything - or anyone - that was foolish enough to get too close. His temper had exiled him, prevented him from earning anyone's trust and now provided the reason for the poor girl to never sleep again.

It was like a drug to him, a sick, twisted addiction. The release offered an escape. It acted as an anaesthetic, and it cruelly tempted him with that sweet darkness every time. But, like any drug, the effects would always wear off. He'd focus back into reality surrounded by destruction and submerged in nothing but contempt. The only salvation was the immense relief that came with the knowledge that the surrounding people were (physically, at least) unscathed.

That was the worst part: Frank never remembered anything he said or did afterwards. Realistically he could've done absolutely anything and would have no recollection of it when he finally came back around.

Frank slumped against the wall and fought the bile rising in his throat. He closed his eyes and took a long, deep, controlled breath to relinquish the very last of the flames. He was at his most vunerable when trapped inside his head. Others would laugh at the irony of that being the very first place he would go to find sanctuary.

With one final deep sigh he pulled himself together and strode downstairs. Anyone who saw him from now on wouldn't have even the slightest incling that anything was wrong. He was like a different person.

'Oh, but that's not fair!' A piercing, high pitched female voice only grew louder as Frank approached the kitchen.

'Didn't anyone tell you that life isn't fair?' A deeper, heavily accented female, who clearly had no time for the previous speaker taunted in response. He heard the sound of a slap, followed by an evident fight. Chairs scraping, feet scuffling.

He pushed open the door as they yelped and screamed under each other's grasp. His maid, the taller of the two had the other bent over the table by a fistful of her red bob, and was gripping on it for all she was worth, while his...well, he didn't know what she was doing here, really, threw insults at her opponent and pummelled the table. Frank rolled his eyes, grabbed them both by the scruffs of thier outfits and separated them with one hard pull.

'What could you possibly be fighting about this time?' He spoke with the tired sigh of a bored parent.

'Magenta cheated! She always cheats and then I have to be the one to do something janky!' Her vocabulary never failed to amaze and irritate him. If she ever received any schooling, it was certainly a mystery to him.

'Oh, shut up Columbia, it's not like you would've understood how to win anyway.' He had to wrestle them apart as they both went for each other again. They both reminisced Bambi on ice as they stepped on the playing cards and poker ships that were strewn all over the floor. He tried very hard to not laugh.

'See!' Columbia stuck out an accusatory hand at her. He had to admit, Magenta did have a point, but he wasn't about to make things worse. 'Why aren't you sticking up for me? Don't you thing cheating is a sin?'

'Your stupid religion is irrelevant to our race, you dumb whore!'

He very neatly lost his grip on them that time. 'Alright, shut up!' They both panted in rage as they glared at each other. He turned his attention back to Columbia, and pursed his lips thoughtfully. 'Maybe.' He answered. 'What did you bet?'

Columbia snarled in rage while Magenta cackled triumphantly.

'Go on, you tell him. It was you're ingenious idea, after all.' Magenta stuck her chin out and raised her eyebrows, a smug smile plastered to her face. He felt Columbia's small body tense up at the bait. She huffed, furrowed her eyebrows and crossed her arms.

'I was so sure that I was going to win this time that...' She gave a heaving sigh. 'I said whoever loses would have to bathe Riff Raff.'

Magenta screamed and clapped her hand together manically. Frank felt his top lip curl upwards in disgust. Oh, I'm surrounded by animals. He looked up and realised the man in question was awkwardly hovering in the doorway. A vulgar creature was Riff Raff, all hunched over and greasy.

'You couldn't have sorted this?' He accused. Riff Raff gave Frank an odd look and shuffled off wordlessly.

Every day he questioned his housing desicions more and more. Riff Raff was an utter weakling: zero backbone, contrary to the apperance. If it wasn't for the extortionate amount of equipment he needed and the level of which to operate it, he would've gotten rid of him long ago.

Columbia was a whiney, spoiled brat. She was wildly attractive to him at first, and they'd certainly had thier fun together, but she soon got far too comfortable and began making ridiculous demands. And, God, was she attached. If he believed in reincarnation, she would certainly come back as a glue stick. One of those really annoying, gender-stereotyped pink glittery ones. But, then again without her no one could go out into the general population for food and other necessities unnoticed.

Magenta was the only one he actually tolerated - she was intelligent, their ambitions and mindsets were very similar. She was the only one who understood when to stay out of his way and when to interact with him. But, even that came at a price. Her extensive knowledge of his frenzied mind gave her the power to push him to the absolute edge, and elicit the most vulgar, inhumane acts from somewhere deep and twisted inside of him. As if that wasn't enough, she adored her brother, Riff Raff. He'd obliged at first, and felt lucky to have secured a handyman and a domestic so quickly. But, even Transylvanians had thier boundaries, and incestual relations was definitely one of them. His stomach churned in disgust at the technicolour bruises that littered her neck and chest.

Frank eventually released the two girls after he was certain they wouldn't tear each other's throats out. 'Ladies, please, I run an establishment, not a circus. Have some decorum, especially when we have a guest in the house.'

Magenta's eyes lit up, and she slammed her hands down on the table. 'Have you kicked her out? You better have kicked her out, Furter, or I swear to fucking God-.'

'Don't talk to me like that in my own house.' Frank's firm tone overshadowed Columbia's petty little I thought God was irrelevant? remark. Frank glared at her and she shut up immediately. 'Columbia, make yourself useful and take her clothes upstairs to her.' She gave a heaving sigh and walked out sulkily.

Magenta made a rude gesture at her back and Frank pushed her hand down before she noticed. He waited until she was safely out of earshot before he continued. 'To answer your question, Magenta, no I have not kicked her out, and nor do I intend to. I have not threatened her, I have not scolded her, I have not done anything to her, other than calm her down and allow her to collect herself. Then, when she feels ready she can be escorted back to her house.'

'And how is she expected to accomplish that?' Magenta demanded. 'Because I'm certainly not doing anything for her, you can stick that idea right up your...' Her words dissolved into thin air as Frank all but annihilated her with his eyes.

Magenta sensed that, somewhere in there, he was daring her to finish her sentence and more. That way, he could have a reason to smack her like he oh so wanted to at that moment.

She was provoking him so hard, nothing gave her greater pleasure than to see him fighting with himself, especially after he'd royally pissed her off. Like today, for example.

She squared up to him - or at least tried to. Frank just found it amusing, he was at least a head taller than her even without the heels on. Eyes glittering with smug pride, she completely abandoned her subject. 'She at least deserves some form of punishment.' She continued rather quietly, watching gleefully as he reluctantly let the anger deflate out of him. 'What kind of person does that? Isn't respecting other's privacy one of your biggest 'house rules'? Poor Riff won't be able to come to bed for a week.' She tilted her chin up and gave him the most antagonising of grins.

Magenta wasn't the slightest bit scared: he'd struck her many times before, and the reward came after when he had that look of bitter self-hatred for hours.

Frank was struggling to rid his mind of the abhorrent images her words had conjured up. It sickened him to even think about, even more so when she spoke about it so proudly. As if it was normal. Accepted. He forced the urge to strangle her to evaporate before he followed through.

'Magenta, don't even bother trying me with that. You know perfectly well how I feel about the...questionable way in which you choose to spend time with your brother. She doesn't seem to remember it, as she was under the influence, but I whole-heartedly support and agree with her actions, even if it was in a drunken stupor.'

Columbia skipped into the room and sat back down, anticipating an argument and looking forward to watching it.

'You're only keeping her because she's pretty.' Magenta scoffed, rolling her eyes. 'You want to fuck her brains out. That's how you treat all of them, but you only ever respect the pretty ones. I don't know where you find these people, honestly, they're so desperate for sex they fall into your bed just like that. Although, I have to admit, I do understand why you treat them like that.' Magenta paused. 'I'd be scavenging for power too if my own people shunned me out.'

For once, Columbia threw her arms up in agreement, exchanging a broad grin of delighted relief with her friend. Frank wasn't stupid, Columbia was only happy because Magenta didn't make her say it.

Magenta turned to leave, but Frank caught her by the arm before she could take a step. He was gripping her very hard, he saw her fight to keep from wincing and his fingers were turning white from the pressure. 'Address me like that again, and you'll have a lot to answer for. Don't think I won't throw you out, because I will. The idea becomes more appealing every day, actually, especially since you've been behaving like a spoiled brat when you don't get your way all the time. Your brother, on the other hand, has been a pleasure to work with. I wouldn't worry about him if you ever did leave. I'll be there for him, I'll always be there. I'd take ever such good care of him, I promise you that.'

Magenta's stomach dropped. They all knew the inhumane way he treated Riff Raff, and Magenta couldn't even disagree with it. Not without severing all ties and ending up out on the streets of this filthy unfamiliar planet. Alone.

They had broken the law, Frank got them out and subsequently used the 'I have given you everything' card any chance he got. Pushing him too far would only end their lives: Magenta wouldn't last two days on her own, and Frank certainly would not let her brother leave. He'd be subjected to his masters blazing temper and crazed imagination, even more so if she wasn't around. Having Magenta to run to afterwards was the only thing keeping Riff Raff alive at the moment, they all knew that.

With no argument left to make, Magenta narrowed her eyes at him, yanked her arm out of his grip and stalked off, absentmindedly flicking her feather duster as she went. Frank made a mental note to tell Columbia to get a new one next time she ventured out. It had been missing recently, and now he knew perfectly well where it had been. Or rather, in whom. It had been utilised alright, but it certainly wasn't for cleaning.

'Well?' He turned to Columbia, hands on his hips in irritation. 'How is she?'

'She's so weird.' She giggled. 'She trembled like a stupid little chihuahua the whole time.'

'Eddie's motorcycle is safe for two people to ride, yes?' The light in Columbia's eyes vanished in an instant, like someone had pulled a plug out. She hung her head and nodded at the floor sadly. 'Excellent.' He said, completely ignoring her distressed state. 'You can take her into the town and she can make her own way back from there.'

He went into the elevator and pulled the door shut, with intentions to go up to the lab. He hadn't made any advancement in the last week, and the events of the last twenty four hours put even more of a strain on the development of his work.

'Aren't you worried about how she got here?'

He pushed the door back open to stare at Columbia quizzically. 'Excuse me?'

'I certainly haven't seen her before, she shouldn't even be able to see the house. At least, not with your 'ingenious concealment technology.' Columbia's entire demenour grew even more irritating as she felt the need to create quotation marks with her fingers. 'No one's turned the machine off since last month, I only checked it just last night and it was on like it always is. She should've only seen that Neibolt House looking thing, I don't understand how she saw straight through it.'

You wouldn't understand how to tie your own shoes, Frank muttered internally, before snapping, 'Do you honestly think I haven't considered that?' All the frustration of the past twenty four hours was fighting to be released and it was in Columbia's best interest to get well out of the way. 'I know she hasn't been here before. She might not be able to recognise me, but I certainly would have recognised her. There's clearly a fault in the machinery, she'll be gone by tomorrow morning at the latest, and I'll just have to teach Riff Raff not to be so careless next time.'

Columbia scoffed and stared back at him in distaste. Of course he'd blame Riff Raff for the mistakes, even though both her and Magenta knew that Riff Raff was the real genius behind all of Frank's greatest achievements.

'Now, go and tell Magenta to start preparing dinner,' he ordered, closing the elevator door. 'She will be dining with us, that's non-negotiable.'

Frank attempted to clear his mind on the way up to his room, essentially psyching himself up for another one on one session with the girl.

He refused to accept that he would never find a way to manage his anger one day. His thoughts were dangerous. That made him dangerous too. And it frightened him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gang’s all here! 
> 
> Has anyone actually played poker? I’d be shit lmao I’m too liable to get the giggles. 
> 
> Until next time!


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re back! Thank you for your patience with this. I’m glad to see people are still showing interest even though I keep procrastinating, including...
> 
> HAZEL! Haaaazzzeeeellllllll! You have no idea how happy it made me to see you! Stalker. Lmao, thank you so much for your constant support. You’ve always been insufferably kind to me. Thank you. 
> 
> Whip.

Though the elevator ride to the top floor was fairly short, Frank managed to think about a lot of things on the way up.

Columbia had said that Sprite, or whatever her real name was, was perfectly fine. Now, that should have come as a relief to Frank, but he didn't trust her one bit. The poor girl could be lying in a pool of her own blood and Columbia would have no qualms in merrily declaring that she was doing very well. He immediately decided to forfeit his work in exchange for the girl's optimum safety, which led him to another obstacle: what in the world he had said to her last. Common sense told him to watch the footage back from one of the television monitors, but then he remembered he'd put her to bed in his own room - the only room in the entire damn house with no cameras. Frank easily could've kicked himself - carefully though, he wouldn't want his intelligence shattered as well as his dignity.

As he got closer to the floor featuring only his bedroom, his lab and the room with the darkest connotations, which only the most disrespectful and badly behaved people had seen the inside of, or indeed, even knew existed, Frank heard the sound of his captivating little mouse crying. She wasn't sobbing, it was hardly gut-wrenching, but it was enough to feel slightly guilty, and immediately afterwards, have a rather marvellous idea.

He needed to find out more about her. As much as information as he could get, her age, her hometown, her school, her family, her friend's families, literally anything that could give the slightest clue to her peculiar immunity to thier foolproof technology.

The reason her arrival had come as a particular shock to all of them was that she definetly had not been to the house before. The machine that Frank had conversed with Columbia about moments before, nothing bigger than a record player, had been invented by Frank during thier time on Earth. Currently sat in the garden, secluded by the rose bushes, was capable of emitting a beam to surround the entire house, and an extra three miles in every direction, that manipulated the structure to appear as simply more woodland to the naked human eye. It blended seamlessly into it's surroundings and had worked perfectly for years (Frank has recently forced himself to accept that he had lost count of how many years he had spent on this planet), yet somehow, this young, soft, lost, beautiful girl had seen right through the camouflage.

The machine could be turned off. That would be the logical explanation, except that hadn't happened because Frank was outside, wandering around the garden to clear his head mere hours before the girl had stumbled into his bedroom and he had checked it then, and everything was in order. The machine would only be turned off when himself or Columiba had found one or more people that they'd quite like to bring back to the house. More specifically, the bedroom. They'd have thier fun with the guests, and when the novelty had worn off, thier memories would be erased and they'd go on with thier lives, completely oblivious to however many sins hey committed between them that night.

One slight annoyance was that it was currently outside the realms of science to be able to erase one's memory completely, therefore small pockets of recollection would always remain. From then on, they'd be able to see the house. Frank never worried about this minor detail, however, and encouraged his housemates to do the same, as they were located in the middle of nowhere. It was highly unlikely that any of the previous guests would ever find themselves in thier area again.

Which begs the question: why in the world was she different? He'd already decided he was going to get more information from her, but he couldn't very well do that after he'd traumatised the poor thing half to death. If only there was a way to pretend that hadn't happened...

With that in mind, Feank chose to divert to his lab instead of his bedroom, and immediately rifled through the many crates scattered around the floor, each one filled to bursting with various solutions and powders. One was face down, with puddles of various coloured liquids slowly leaking into one another, sprinkled with deathly sharp shards of broken glass. It had been left there for seven days now, after Frank had thrown a monumental tantrum and threw the entire thing from the table in a fit of frustration. Standing it in afterwards was not fun. Some might call it karma, Frank just called it spite. Not only did he very nearly do the splits, arms windmilling, legs splayed, clinging on the table for dear life, his six inch dagger pumps had been eroded to two inches, and Magenta's shameless cackling mixed with him squealing like a pig. The entire thing had been caught on camera, and he threatened each and everyone of them with 'a tragic accident faster than you can say very steep concrete stairwell in a cctv black spot!', if they didn't delete it immediately.

The reason why Frank never met any of his deadlines (no matter how important they were) was that he was so easily distracted. The correct bottle had been staring him the face the whole time, but he'd been two busy daydreaming about his humiliation to see it. The solution in question caused the consumer to experience short term memory loss, in the most extreme sense. The effects ranged from wiping the last fifteen minutes to half an hour, it was the perfect way to make her susceptible to him again. He just had to figure out a way to get it into her system discreetly. Ice cubes would have been the obvious answer, but he really didn't have the time to wait for them to freeze.

He took the stairs back down to the first floor, carrying the glass bottle with him and going straight to the kitchen. He needed to put it in something for her to drink, luckily the solution was clear, Frank hoped that it wouldn't appear too obvious in another liquid. It was odourless and didn't taste of anything, so it would probably be fine.

Alcohol was already out of the question, water would've been a bit too risky, and he couldn't be bothered to make coffee or tea.

'Columbia, what's the drink that you like?' Frank called, almsot hitting his head on the top of the fridge as he rummaged through it fruitlessly. The girl who was unashamedly obsessed with him echoed him sarcastically.

'How the fuck am I supposed to know what drink you're talking about?'

'Oh, you know what I mean!' Frank had had a long day, he was frustrated and tired. 'That awful bubbly stuff, it comes in that vulgar green colour and it tastes like irresponsible parenting.'

Between her genuine laughter, she said, 'Do you mean Sprite?'

Frank blinked. 'How did you know that she-.'

Columbia reached far back into the American style fridge and pulled out a green bottle. 'This?' She asked, handing it to him.

Frank's mind was in that hazy stage of confusion, so he just thanked Columbia and went back upstairs, poured a quarter of the drink into the sink and filled the rest up with the solution. He shook the bottle vigorously, remembered three quarters of it was carbonated and could've cried with how inconveniently this entire day was going, caught most of the explosion in the sink and poured it into a glass over ice.

Frank only noticed the difference because he knew it was there - the liquid closer to the top of the glass didn't bubble as much as the red, but to dazed and confused street rat it would appear just fine. He wouldn't be able to relax before she drank it, but he just had to figure out a way to actually give it to her. Leaning the glass on the floor was the easiest option, but it was also shamefully cowardly. Frank was a lot of things, but he most certainly was not a coward. The other option was to listen to that nagging voice perpetually haunting him and hold her undoubtably struggling body still and force it down her throat, but once he got to red dark place he wasn't sure that he'd be able to get out.

He willed himself to stop overthinking everything, strode to the door and rapped on it smartly. Perhaps a little too smartly, he didn't miss the hushed yelp and the breathless 'fucking hell' the preluded the very cautious opening of the door.

She opened it just a crack and peered out tentatively. He already knew that she had been upset, but seeing her large blue eye spoiled by glassy redness (just the one - the door obstructed the rest of his view), made him feel absolutely sucker-punched by remorse. Freshly washed silver hair framed her pale, heart-shaped face (the only reason he knew that was because she now stank of spiced roses), and gently curled to sit just above her shoulders, which glistened slightly, another indication that she had sorted herself out in almsot complete silence. He hadn't gifted her the pet name for nothing, but that was just ridiculous.

In actual fact, silence only ensued for all of two seconds after she opened the door. The second thier eyes Kent in another al,out unbelievable circumstance, she began to plead.

'I'm sorry.' Her voice was so much stronger than it previously had been, which both surprised and relieved Frank. He wouldn't have known what to do with himself if he had been the reason for her permanent, crippling shyness. 'I'm really sorry, you were right, I was just being childish, but I know I should've been more grateful towards you, and I am, I really am, I just didn't know heat to do and I got scared and my imagination ran away with me and I-.'

'Slow down, darling, you'll make yourself ill if you panic like that.' He gave her an understanding look and handed the glass over to her. 'This might make you feel a little better.'

Frank watched her intently as she took it hesitatingly and studied it for a moment. Sprite was still very wary of just about everything in this house. Already she'd anticipated the paintings to he drop-panels in disguise, with monsters or at least people very scarily dressed up to be on the other side waiting to scare her. She also screwed her eyes shut and practically tore the shower curtain off the rail in her ninja-inspired movement, waiting to find a dead body or a skeleton in there. And now, she half expected eyeballs to rise above the surface as she gently twirled the straw around, listening to the clink of the ice.

She took a sip and her whole face instantly lit up. 'This is-!' She caught herself before she came across as even more immature than she already had done. It was nothing more than that rush of familiarity that loosened the knot in her stomach that had been tied so tightly for so long. She drank over half of it - Frank never took his eyes off her once -tutted when she realised she'd been talking at him through a crack, and aggressively pushed the door wide open.

'Dinner's at five.' Frank echoed his parting shot quietly to see whether the drug had taken effect. This would be news to her if the concoction had performed correctly.

'Oh, okay. But, I really wouldn't want to overstay my welcome, really, you've done more than more than enough for me already and that last thing I'd want to do is impose-.'

'Look, what did I just say about panicking?' He interrupted her again, and smiled kindly at her. Internally, he was almost dancing for joy at just how perfectly the entire plan went. She really did look quite dazed, as if she wasn't sure whether she'd just woken up or had just been daydreaming. She was trying hard to feign normality, but the same with the mixture, Frank only noticed it because he already knew it was there. 'It's the least I can do. It makes a change to have someone with a little respect. And I most certainly will not send you back out there without making sure you're fit and well enough to go on.' She ducked her head and tucked a stand of hair behind her ear. Frank already knew that meant she was embarrassed, or bashful. 'But, I'm afraid I must know your name.'

'She frowned. 'I already told you, it's-.' She closed her eyes and exhaled in defeat. 'Sprite's only a nickname - although I'm sure you gathered that.' So, she recalled referring to herself as Sprite. Frank was willing to assume the cut off point in her memory was right there. 'My real name is Celeste Sanjati,' she revealed, and almost grimaced afterwards. 'But nobody calls me that. I'm Sprite to everyone, I've always been Sprite.'

'Darling, I think your birth name is beautiful.' He complimented her softly after a slight pause. Frank honestly did believe it to be perfectly suited to her in every sense of the word. Celestial, ethereal, heavenly. The verbal representation of her silvery locks, her eleven features, even her voice reminded him of wind chimes. Her eyes were the colour of a midnight blue sky, sprinkled with stars that, until now, had been tears threatening to spill. To his delight, her eyes seemed to retain a natural glint to them, and she was beginning to grow out of constantly looking like she was about to break down in terror. 'I really don't think I can call you Sprite...' He paused for a moment, pursing his lips and narrowing his eyes in thought. 'Mind if I call you Lessie instead?'

Sprite - or rather Lessie, although that wouldn't seem right for a long time - chuckled and said, 'You can call me whatever you want as long as it's not cunt.'

Both of them reacted simultaneously. Sprite had completely forgotten where she was, or indeed, who she was talking to and turned to walk further into his room with both hands over her mouth, shaking her head as she couldn't decide whether she was laughing or crying. Frank didn't know Sprite/Lessie could curse and it shocked him so much he easily could've been knocked down by a feather. He gasped loudly and flinched at if the word physically hurt him. Her laugh was delightfully contagious and it was wonderful to know his plan had definetly worked, but he'd have to do something about that. His divine little mouse was certainly not going to have the vocabulary of a sailor, he would make sure of that.

Struggling to keep a straight face, Frank said, 'There's no shame in it, darling, we've all been there. I just wouldn't let your parents hear you speaking like that, if I were you.'

'Where do you think I learned it?'

Frank was once again stunned, but for an entirely different reason. Foul language was hardly unheard of, but in his society it was borderline religion to be mindful of what one says around children and to hold the utmost respect for one's elders. Respect was actually a very important thing to the people of Transsexual, indeed the whole of Trnasylvania, contrary to popular rumours. Instantly, he felt a pang if injustice flare in his stomach. How could she be left in the care of such animals? Not only did they evidently use awful language around her, she'd been away from her home for over forty eight hours (if her version of events was anything to go by), and her phone hadn't rung once. Any respectable parent would be beside themselves with worry by now. She also had a serious alcohol problem, and she was only in her late teens. Nobody of such a tender age should even know what addiction is, let alone have succumbed to it.

If he didn't know any better, Frank would have said that she didn't have anyone looking out for her, but he'd seen numerous family member contacts in her phone after he'd taken the liberty of having a little bit of sleuth. They didn't deserve someone as wonderful as her, she deserved far better than them. If he believed n a superior being, he'd expect them to be punished for taking a family in general, not just her, for granted.

It's none of your business, Frank, he reminded himself coolly. 'She'll be yours before the day is out. You won't have to worry about her future for much longer. In time, she'll realise that she needs you more than she's ever needed anyone. She'll learn to trust you, to confide in you, she'll run to you for protection, guidance, affection. You'll be able to take her under your wing, to mould her, to nurture her. None of that will be able to happen if you give yourself away.

'Well,' Frank breathed, trying to break the slightly awkward silence that had since settled between them. 'I've got some work that needs doing, I'm just across the hall for now, call if you need me, but knock first, okay?' Sprite nodded, already imagining one hundred and one things that could be going on behind that door. Human dissection? Animal testing? An adult film shoot? Who knows. 'You can stay up here if you prefer, but keep in mind that my staff will be around. They're nice enough, but whatever you do, do not disrespect the food. I made that mistake once and I almsot didn't live to tell the tale.'

Frank winked at her and walked off. Sprite watched him go, amd concluded that his stance was more of a saunter. She wondered if he knew that he constantly wore an I'm-judging-you-harder-that-your-Twitter-mutuals-ever-will expression on his face.

With no other distraction, Sprite was left to think - to panic - about the impending meal. She was not looking forward to this dinner party at-fucking-all.

A few hours later, after Sprite had plucked up enough courage to leave the bedroom and pleasantly surprised herself with how easily she managed to converse with the girl she assumed was the maid - either that or they had some permanent weird master-servant role play fetish going on, after Columbia had completed the heavy task of replenishing and re-fuelling Eddie's bike whilst blinded by her own tears, after Frank had had another set of rubber gloves and a mint-coloured lab coat soiled beyond replenishment by blood, organ matter and various bodily fluids, the gong crashed to signal dinner.

Frank immediately removed his dirty work clothes (he always made such a loud job of taking off his rubber gloves - the snapping noise was just so satisfying!) and walked down the corridor to collect Sprite. He had a feeling she'd need a certain degree of encouragement, and he was right - she was currently hugging her knees on the bed, willing herself to bite the billet and go - but before he got to Sprite, he ran into Columbia.

'I checked the bike,' Columbia informed him, her voice thick with emotion. 'Everything's ready to go. Are you taking her back?'

Frank put his hands on his hips, frowning slightly in thought. She could be useful. Very useful, in fact. She was obviously gorgeous and beautiful and he'd certainly have his way with her, but there was another, more obscure use, something not even his housemates knew about. Having her around permanently would create the potential for all the years of theory to finally be put into practice. He drummed his fingers on his hips and pursed his lips thoughtfully.

'No,’ he finalised. ‘No I don’t think I am.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chains: locked. Fate: sealed. Chapter: over. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! My love affair with Sprite began when I tried it with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top for the first time. Life-changing. 
> 
> Until next time. Frankie awaits ;)


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is still happening. I promise.

If someone had told five-year-old Sprite that she would make it to eighteen, she would've laughed. If someone had told eleven-year-old Sprite that she would lose her virginity two years later, she would have told them to fuck off. If someone had told drunk Sprite that in a few hours she would fall into the company of a insatiably charming and witty transvestite who was filthy rich and apparently 'quite a lover of beautiful things.' She had complimented his bed chambers, but she somehow (with a coy smile that she both detested and loved that she couldn't hide) she knew Frank was referring to herself. Consequently, not even a plethora or curse-words or future self-apparitions could describe the disbelief that eighteen-but-I'm-basically-nineteen year old Sprite felt now.

She was led down a discerning staircase on the arm of a stupidly handsome doctor with the ability to charm the pants off a nun (if the gossip was anything to go by) to an even more prestigious looking dinner where the three other guests treated her so wonderfully.

Everything was going one hundred times better than expected, but two things sent her mood crashing down. One being that she had seen too many horror movies to not know where this was going. The charming, charismatic serial killer that lulls their victims into such a deep false sense of security that they don't even notice the knife in their back until they're drawing their last breath. Sprite was grateful for the camaraderie thus far, but she knew better than to let her guard - or her perpetual paranoia - down just yet. Secondly, she crossed the threshold from light-brown floorboards in the foyer to monochrome tiles in the kitchen, smelt the alcohol, and everything completely went to shit.

Frank immediately felt her body tense severely and begin to tremble slightly. Not one of his housemates had noticed, and he was determined to keep it that way. He held on to her tightly and he steered her over to an empty chair - so much so that Sprite half expected to come away with a bloody stump in place of her left hand.

How could he continue to be so stupid? How many times was he going to make forgetful mistakes that could easily lead to her desperate departure? Standing there, paralysed, while she stumbled in to his bedroom, putting her in the only room he couldn't monitor and now this? Carry on in this fashion and his whole plan wouldn't even have the potential to leave the pages of handwritten theory notes.

Sprite tried her hardest to eat, to talk, to do anything other than think about the alcohol. She tried focusing on the smell of the black coffee Frank had placed in front of her with a meaningful glance instead of the red wine, thinking about how unorthodox and probably false the three servant's names were (Riff Raff, Magenta and Columbia - the fuck?), clenching and unclenching her hands beneath the table in an effort to ignore the fact that her body now relied on alcohol in order to function in any way at all.

She'd always been able to brush that thought off before, but under the circumstances of the past few days, it only caused her stomach to painfully drop and her heart to follow suit. Despair, hopelessness, shame, fear, it had all been snowballing for so many years, and it had suddenly hit her all at once.

Frank hadn't taken his eyes off of her since they sat down. His heart ached for her, but he refrained from doing or saying anything, as he had a feeling that drawing attention to her would make her hate him even more than she already did for putting her in this situation. He saw her break out in a cold sweat. She was almost supernatural looking, the way her cheeks flared scarlet but the rest of her face was pale enough to belong in a morgue, how she incessantly tapped her foot underneath the table, and how even the slightest noise - such as chairs moving, cutlery scraping - made her jump so violently it looked painful.

None of the others had said anything, but Frank knew it wasn't out of respect. Even if Riff Raff had noticed anything, he didn't have the balls to speak unless spoken to, Magenta did have a good heart but was tragic at conveying any sort of emotional support, and Columbia didn't have any qualms with seeing anyone suffering as long as it wasn't her.

It wasn't long before she appeared as less sickly and more terminal, and Frank took this as a definite sign to intervene. He stared at Magenta intently for an excruciatingly long time until she finally looked up and caught on. Magenta huffed dramatically, before making a big fuss of clearing everything away and ordering the others to leave.

Frank could almost hear her thoughts: why do we all have to skip desert just because this stupid little girl is too weak to make it through another fifteen minutes? This is all her own fault, I don't have any sympathy for her. She needs to grow a pair, grin and bear it and get over it like any of us would do.

Grow a pair just so happened to be a delightful choice phrase she had picked up from (until now) the only other foul-mouthed female under his roof. She was keen to use it as often as possible, and even heard her mutter it under her breath at she added the last plate noisily onto the stack.

Frank merely glared at her rather than say anything, and luckily this time she had the common sense to refrain from taking it any further. She matched his steely gaze and left, hauling Columbia out by the arm and Riff Raff, his sister's ever loyal follower, shuffled after the pair obediently.

After the door slammed shut, it took all of two seconds for his desperate little mouse to dart over to the alcohol cabinet, and even less time for Frank dash forwards and beat her to it.

It wasn't exactly hard to hold her still (it was tragically easy, actually), but she certainly made a very good effort. He did have to admit that she was a lot stronger than she looked, and restraining a pissed off, hormonal teenager on one side and trying not to bash one's head on the cabinet on the other was proving to be quite the challenge.

'This is so unfair!' She whined desperately as she continued (in vain) to wrestle him out of the way. 'Please, you know I'm not in a good place, I only want one! I'm not asking for the whole bottle, I'm not planning on passing out, I'm in so much fucking pain and I just want one!'

'I can't understand a word you're saying when you scream at me like a banshee!' Frank had intended to keep his voice calm so as not to stress her out even more, but seeing her this worked up over something as trivial as alcohol was beginning to make him panic. He'd given her a particularly hard shove to put some distance between them, and they both red in the face and out of breath. 'Now, what on earth do you think you're playing at? Kicking and scratching at me like that, I've never seen anything so gratuitous, and would never have expected such foolish behaviour from you!'

Half of that sentence was a lie. Frank had seen so much more, and would continue to see more unruly behaviour than she would ever know. In fact, Lessie was currently one of, if not the tamest he'd ever had.

Sprite (for she still referred to herself as Sprite, and would continue to do so for a while at least) wasn't sure what set her off. It could've been the intense withdrawal: it had hit her all at one, and although she only had to sit still for a grand total of twenty minutes, she couldn't remember the last time her entire body had cried out of relief so excruciatingly. It could've been the way she'd acted: yes, she was incredibly embarrassed and ashamed of herself, but she didn't have much time to feel guilty about this because her body had completely detached from her mind and acted without consent. That had never happened to her before. Her addiction had make her feel insane, but never, ever had it made her act insane.

Both of these incentives were plausible, but she knew it was neither of the two. The thing that hit her the hardest was the way Frank had reprimanded her. She felt far too much like a puppy that had just been told off, and it made her feel not so much rotten and so much more filthy. She knew it was this feeling that made her start crying.

She was sad, ashamed, angry, irritated, granted she was all of these things. Yet weirdly, she was happy. She was happy in a reminiscent sort of way, as it made her think of her mother. Most children hated being scolded, but Sprite cherished them and relished in it for as long as she could for she knew that her mother only scolded her when she was sober enough to care.

Frank cared. He might have been terrifying, unsettling as shit, and now warring between comforting her or scrutinising her even further, but he cared. They didn't even know the other existed three days ago, yet Frank had shown more tender attentiveness towards her in that short space of time than anyone ever had in Sprite's whole life.

'Come on now, little mouse, there's no need to cry...' Frank spoke with a gentle voice, tentatively reaching out for her as he wanted to comfort her but didn't really know how. She stepped backwards sharply, not because she was scared or made to feel uncomfortable by him, but because she continued to turn on her heel and half-run out of the room with a beeline towards the main doors.

'I can't thank you enough for your hospitality, I appreciate it, I really do,' she said as she took her tattered denim jacket (which she had completely forgotten even existed, let alone that she was wearing it last night) from the coat stand and donned it hastily. 'But I need to leave. I'm not sure where I'll go. I might not even go anywhere and chicken out of leaving like I have done so many other times - I mean, I don't even know why I'm telling you this, the most appropriate thing to do would be to thank you for your hospitality and chivalry and leave it at that but apparently I can't do anything without causing a scene as much as I can't do anything without crying but I-.'

''Lessie, look at you, you don't even know what you're saying.' Frank continued to speak carefully, mindful not to frighten her even further. He stepped right up to her in the most non-threatening way possible and, seeing that she didn't object or even flinch, gently rested his hands on her shoulders. 'No one said anything about you leaving,' he reminded her softly. 'We're not in any rush to throw you out, in fact, we'd quite enjoy some new company. It gets awfully lonely after a while.'

Sprite blinked, unsure of whether to trust him or not. She still had yet to respond and Frank sighed. 'At least tell me what's making you so anxious.' He squeezed her shoulders gently and offered a small smile. 'I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to you while you were under my care. I can't let you go without knowing you're completely safe. I might be able to help you, I want to help you.'

She looked at him doubtfully. 'Okay,' she sighed. 'Okay, fine but - j-just promise you won't...' she sighed again, clutching her hair as she always did when she was frustrated. 'I'm not proud of anything I've done to get me up to this point, let's just say that.'

'Imagine if I were to judge you. Me, of all people!'

Sprite did manage to splutter a laugh at this, but her legs still trembled as, guided by a gentle, firm hand in the small of her back that she still expected to shove her over the railing, she climbed a flight of stairs to the second floor.

She'd only seen this area once before, nothing more than a fleeting glance on her way down for the meal, but taking it all in properly only reminded her just how much of a peasant she really was. Her inner child really wanted to explore, but she was ushered into what she realised, with a huge fist of emotion to the stomach, was a library.

Sprite genuinely could've sobbed with relief. Literature had always played a huge part in her life, and for the most part, her sanity. She never did feel particularly safe throughout her childhood, so having a hundred different, and frankly better, worlds to hide in was what kept her going. It was a place for her to escape in her head, and she formed deeper relationships with fictional characters than she ever had with real people. More often than not, book characters seemed to understand her the way she understood herself. As she grew older, she learned to conceal this as she felt others would tease or belittle her for it, but to this day, books could calm her down like nothing else.

Which is exactly what happened right as they walked in. It was just what the doctor ordered (pun intended) and she hadn't even realise just how much she needed it until now. Just the smell of the room was enough to make her feel completely safe: the familiar, indescribable old-book smell, the earthy scent of the polished hardwood floor mixed with the smoky odour from the hearty fire that she might have regarded as a safety hazard if she hadn't been otherwise engaged, threatened to knock her out in one huge bowling ball of familiar, comforting security.

Frank, too, noticed this immediate change in her demeanour, and had never been more thankful that he'd trusted his intuition. The library was wonderfully peaceful and aesthetically pleasing to look at, but he never expected this. She relaxed under his grip and stopped seeming as though she was discreetly trying to dig her heels in so she wouldn't have to move.

He didn't let her go until she sat down. He took a seat opposite her. The most important thing, Frank had learned in the short time he'd had to analyse her and the situation itself, was to constantly fill the silences and any other gaps in inspiration or conversation to prevent her from loosing her nerve. He couldn't allow her to start thinking, because she'd only psyche herself out. That would either lead her to clamming up entirely, improvising a less difficult story on the spot or making up excuses as to avoid addressing the subject. Which, at that moment, happened to be her apparent mountain of undisclosed issues.

'This is a safe space for you, don't worry.' He reminded her as gently as he could. He had asked her to start from the very beginning - 'A very good place to start, in my opinion' - and received complete rabbit-in-the-headlights silence. The frustration settling like a piece of lead in the pit of his stomach was threatening to betray him, and more importantly, put a stop to his plan before it had even started. 'Everything you tell me now is in complete confidence. You've nothing to be scared of and you've certainly nothing to be ashamed of. I can't let you go without knowing you're completely safe. Tell me what's making you so unhappy.'

'It would be easier to ask me what is making me happy.' She chuckled humourlessly at the floor, which she spent most of her time instantly studying. 'You and I would be rid of each other a lot quicker.'

Frank stayed respectfully silent. After a few more irritating moments, she sighed lightly and, at long last, began to speak. She told him how she never had much of a childhood. How most children grew up making friends, learning to tie their shoes and training themselves to be unafraid of their own shadows. Sprite thought her own childhood was normal until she heard her friends discussing this when they were just in the double digit age range, and for the first time she realised she might have missed out on some things. She never spoke of any of this at the time - she made up some white pickett fence bullshit that was vaguely similar to the frightfully boring (yet achingly safe) recounts from her friends.

One of her earliest childhood memories was watching in some kind of petrified awe as a strange, opaque smoke curled under her door in wispy tendrils. She had suspected it was perhaps the arrival or dissaperation of a mythical woodland creature or a spaceship. Or perhaps it was something far more sister, like a storybook witch that was practising her spells and enchantments right outside her door, and Sprite had to stay quite otherwise she would be found and probably dismembered, or at least have a few hairs pulled from her head. She'd been burrowed right under her thin, worn covers. She should've felt safe as all her friends later admitted they used to, but there was a rather large hole in the material, a window that she could still see the smoke through, and she had accepted her twisted fate to helplessly let the dark magic's after-effects to engulf her and be suffocated by the stench of awfully stereotypical lizards skulls and dog tails.

It certainly smelt like rotting animals. It easily could be been the steam from a witches potion too, as it made her feel awfully strange and as though she was watching it all happen to someone else. She woke up the next morning completely unscathed and put it down to a bad dream, but the smell lingered. That was one smell she'd never forget, and one she'd be rudely re-introduced to at a party decades later. It had been hilariously funny at the time, finally making that connection, but after she'd sobered up and was trying to sleep, she cried bitter tears of resentment. She was three years old when she experienced something that was called getting 'contact high'.

She did some more explaining. How she pretty much never had anyone to look after her she had to grow up far too fast and learn to take care of herself. How her mother was a single parent, but 'single' never really applied - there were always men around, but she never saw the same one twice. Her perception of men had been moulded very early in Sprite's life. Halfway through primary school, she confidently had the male species summed up: each and every one were disgusting, scary, violent and they all treated women as nothing more than cashpoints and flesh-lights. Bullying was standard for almost all children, but Sprite never learned to cope with it because she received the same treatment at home.

She had become desensitiseed to it, but whenever it got too bad she did the only thing she new how to do. Indeed, the only thing she knew would make the loud, imposing, violent ones go away: apologise over and over again. not many of the them (the bullies or the men) were sympathetic to tears - it was probably even more terrifying if they were - and if that didn't work, run. Run as fast and as far away as she could. She'd spent many nights in church doorways and bus terminals in all weathers because anywhere was safer than home or school, as she later found out.

All that running did pay off, as she was selected for cross-country at one point. It was one of, if not the only 'good' thing she'd accomplished - but she contracted athsma and other chest complication due to the substances, dust-mites and asbestos floating around in the air, and was dropped not long after.

All of these stories seemed quite pointless in Sprite's eyes - and even more cringeworthy to Sprite's ears - but Frank was sat forwards wit his elbows on his knees, listening with an interest that was almsot endearing. He interrupted her halfway through her explain it how they came into so much money, and his sudden deep voice made her jump.

'You don't seem too scared of me.' Frank pointed out, grinning broadly at her when she looked up. 'Or are you a compelling actress as well as a storyteller?'

She snorted a laugh. 'First of all, I was absolutely paralytic when I first met you, and...I guess it was initially because...you don't - you're not terribly conventional for a man.'

A cocked eyebrow set an uncertain flare in Sprite's cheeks. Her chest tightened as she suddenly had a premonition of him loosing it and throwing her out on account of her insolence.

'Because I look like a girl, is that it?'

'No!' She defended herself haughtily, but couldn't help giggling just a little bit. 'Anyway,' she continued, readjusting her hair and making herself more comfortable. 'I'm sick of the sound of my own voice, so in a nutshell: the rest of my childhood involved drugs, alcohol, dogs that were not nice dogs and men who were not nice men. I have zero memories between nine and ten, I suppose it was just a blur of instability and unhappiness for me. The universe decided it was our turn and we got a shit load of money, and for about six weeks I could actually say I was happy. Isn't that fucked up? Nineteen years on this planet and six weeks have made me happy.'

'Eighteen.' He corrected her softly. She glared at him.

'I got rich. To everyone else, I had it all. I was living proof that fairytales do come true, but it was the worst point in my life. Rumours started that my mother earned the money through sex - apparently there's a video on the internet but I've never quite been brave enough to look - if my mother was distant before, she was non-existent after that. I made so many stupid mistakes and got myself addicted to alcohol and on the verge of either a mental breakdown or...you know, I don't even know what else wouldn't happened. Money opened the doors for the toughest period of my life and I'm still waiting for it to end.'

Silence followed. It was awkward for Sprite as she had never told anyone that much about herself before, and was half-expecting a non-diegetic theme tune to some dramatic soap opera to start playing. Frank, on the other hand, used the silence to allow his brain to run wild. Luckily for him, his poker face was second to none. She obviously had nowhere better to go, that was one obstacle out of the way. She needed attention. She put on an amusing little show of defiant independence, but his little mouse craved it: a gentle touch, a few words of encouragement, even a smile (without malevolence or salaciousness) was likely to be a rarity for her. She needed guidance, protection, and to be made to feel as though she was loved. That was very promising. Tragically easy and very, very promising.

Another conclusion, derived from somewhere that couldn't be more unrelated to his brain, was that he was intensely and almsot painfully aroused. Watching her bear her soul to him like that, knowing she was foolish enough to trust him and let him see her at her most vulnerable was positively exhilarating. She didn't have anyone else. It was entirely possible that she wasn't wanted by anyone else. No one even knew she was here. Soldering on through years of just 'coping' all the time had made her weak. Body, mind and soul. She was weak, tired and lonely. Lonely people would do anything for anyone who they thought might need them. Whether it was genuine or not.

He moved to sit down beside her after receiving her permission and kept a firm grip on her hands as he spoke again.

'I want you to answer this question as honestly as you can,' he said after kissing her hand - something which had become a bit of a ritual for them. 'After that, you're free to go. I promise.'

Sprite was more than a little shaken up. She knew he was going to ask her something serious. She just wasn't sure if she was ready to hear it. His next worlds took her so completely by surprise that she flinched.

'Do you want to go home?'

An invisible sledgehammer thwacked her in the stomach. She felt her ears burning and her threat ran dry. At first, she was incredulous as to why she was fighting back tears, but soon it became painfully obvious.

No one had ever asked about her happiness before. Aforementioned in thier previous conversation, most, if not all people assumed she had not a care in the world. She finally heard that question, the one she'd secretly been yearning for somebody to ask, even if she didn't (in fact, only just) realise it herself.

No. Of course the answer was no, it always had been and always will be no. She hated talking about her grievances with a passion. She always sounded, even to herself, like an ungrateful, spoiled brat who was fantasising and romanticising mental illness and hard times because it was currently a trend. That, and the fact that (until now) she didn't realise she even had a choice in the matter, both stunned and embarrassed her into complete silence.

He'd been looking her dead in the eyes the whole time, and as she phased back into the moment, she realised she'd been unashamedly staring back. She thought it might have been suggestive for a second, but then she remembered she was bright red and probably gawping like a fish, so that thought was quickly forgotten.

She sighed, looked down and shook her head guilty.

He wasn't surprised. He didn't even react.

'Do you have anywhere else to go?'

His gentle, patient words unknowingly forced her to admit that no, she didn't. She didn't have anyone anymore. She shook her head wordlessly again, face burning and chest hurting more than ever.

Frank chose this opportune moment to gently tilt her head up, hoping that her embarrassment would prevent her from noticing how unnaturally hot his hand felt.

'Why don't you stay with me?' Nether of them had spoken in more than a whisper since her story finished. 'I can keep you safe.'

She shook her head for the third time, without even realising she was doing it. 'I don't know what that feels like,' she admitted softly. 'I don't think I've ever felt safe.'

He tilted his head slightly and frowned in sympathy. She'd never seen someone who exuded opia as intensely as Frank did. This bizarre emotion only grew as he removed his fingers from under her chin, and she thought he was going to stroke her hair behind her ear. Instead, he lowered his hand to brush lightly over the skin of her neck.

'I'm sure someone might miss you...'

She jumped at his touch, not because of how startling the scorching heat was, but because he was now lightly stroking the lovebites from mistake number I-can't-remember-because-lost-count-years-ago that she'd completely forgotten to conceal.

She grabbed the shoulder of her shirt and yanked it up to cover them. 'That's not-!'

He pulled her hand away after reassuring her that he only wanted to look, and for some strange reason that didn't seem at all creepy or uncalled for to Sprite, so she let him push the hem down so it bunched up on her forearm and continue to study her.

'Did it hurt?' He asked her almost casually after a sharp nail on a particularly nasty one made her wince. 'When he did this to you?'

'She.' Sprite deadpanned, somehow both thrashing around in complete hysterics and going so far past the point of caring that she could've easily fallen asleep. 'No, not really. It's mostly numb there now.'

She barely noticed how close he'd gotten, but all of a sudden he was almost nuzzling into the crook of her neck and his hair was tickling her nose, threatening to make her sneeze.

'Has anyone ever been this gentle with you?' She gave an awkward one-armed shrug. He tutted in sympathy - she didn't miss the hint of patronisation, either. 'Such a shame,' he hovered right by her ear, so close she could feel his teeth grazing the skin there. 'You're such a lovely, sweet little girl. I certainly wouldn't want to hurt you.' She barely - just barely - felt his tongue flick against her earlobe.

She kind of knew this would happen. Sprite was independent enough, if she didn't want it she would've left when he'd given her the chance. This cycle was almost a chore for her now. Mess up somehow, get drunk, have sex, thank any and all Gods she could think of that she didn't get hurt, wake up sober the next morning and have a little cry about it and in a week, or sometimes even a day, start the whole thing over again.

This instance might be just a little different however. Usually she fucked for the sake of fucking. Someone to share a sweaty hour with, there was no connection, hell, not even an attraction there most times. Even if this was only meant to be a one night stand, at least she finally found someone charming, handsome and who had that rare respect for her.

'I wasn't lying when I said I haven't felt safe.' With zero consent from her brain, she heard herself say, 'although I kind of do now.'

Her words either struck a chord with him or made her immediate embarrassment too obvious to ignore, for he lifted his head and smiled at her.

'Well, isn't that nice?' He winked as he carefully re-adjusted her shirt. 'Right then, little mouse. I think it's time we call it a night, don't you?'

Sprite was stunned into slice for about the thousandth time. She was fully expecting (as in, she was literally clenching) to be whisked upstairs or pinned to the sofa, hell, even getting dragged outside for a shag in the rose-bushes would've made more sense that what had just happened. She blinked at him stupidly. He cocked a smug, perfectly stencilled eyebrow, smirking and scrutinising her with magnetic eyes that somehow held both the darkness of temptation and the sparkle of amusement simultaneously.

They both knew exactly what mistake she'd made, and Sprite was left to do nothing exact shift humiliatedly under his intense gaze. He stood up slowly and this snapped her out of her daze. She agreed hastily and leapt to her feet obiedently, letting him guide her once again with a firm hand in the small of her back. They went to a different room (there was still a tiny flicker of hope that he might lead Sprite to his room - that flicker spluttered, coughed and died rather unceremoniously). She thanked him profusely while he grinned down at her and ruffled her hair, before she was left to get herself ready for, with a certain degree of disappointment, nothing more than a good night's sleep.

Just as she was drifting off, Sprite realised she never actually responded to his proposal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life got in the way. I will try to update more regularly. Swear. Thanks for the continued interest everyone.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s 3.30am and I’m wide awake. I have to be up in four hours lmao.

Making the decision to stay was not easy. In fact, the prospect of it had kept Sprite up all night. The next morning, Frank took one look at her and launched into full doctor mode and went about fuss-fuss-fussing over whatever illness she'd contracted, until (once she could finally get a word in edgeways) she convinced him it was trouble sleeping and nothing more.

She slept during the day instead - the constant hum of activity proved comforting and soothing, and her overactive mind had exhausted her so much and she welcomed sleep so eagerly that she didn't move at all during her sleep. Yet another reason for Frank to assume she'd caught some ungodly disease and expired right there in her bed.

When she eventually did wake up, it was pitch black. The curtains had been pulled shut, a few extra pillows had been propped under her head and the only light came from a cluster of candles standing in the corner of the room.

Turning the bedside lamp on nearly spilled an entire glass of water that had been left for her along with a bowl of what was probably soup. It was stone cold now and was starting to congeal on account of how long it had been sat there, which made it look more like stale vomit. Or brains. She wouldn't be surprised if it were a mixture of all three, actually.

She changed into some clean clothes (another necessity that had been left for her - she must remember to thank them for being so attentive and kind to her). She was pleasantly surprised to find a standard black tank top and shorts in a neat little pile at the foot of her bed rather than a bedazzled burlesque costume - although she didn't have any qualms about wearing either outfit, honestly - brushed the Frankenstein-esque out of her hair and left her room.

She needn't have worried about waking anyone up; she had since embraced her pet name and took pride in how she wasn't called that on a daily basis for no reason. She didn't really have anything to do at two in the morning, but everyone else's night was her new day, she had to make it work somehow.

She seized the opportunity to go upstairs rather than down. The third floor was the anomaly of the house: sandwiched between two decadent, ostentatious floors, the Third Floor was simply a narrow corridor featuring Frank's laboratory and Frank's bedroom. One out of bounds and one invitation-only. Hardly took Einstein to decipher between the two.

The only reason she knew the room was a laboratory was because, even before she was close to teetering on the edge of making a decision, it had been drummed into her that one much never ever ever go in there without permission. Of course that only made her curiosity worse. Little did they know if they'd kept quiet she wouldn't have even had the idea of going in there. At least, not for the first few days before the groans started.

It had always been a particularly noisy household: the constant clack-clack-clack of heels on hard floor, Magenta's quick footsteps and sometimes tuneful whistling as she cooked and cleaned, Columbia's record player forever playing her turn-that-racket-down-now-or-I'll-throw-the-bloody-thing-out-the-window version of bubblegum pop.

So when Sprite first heard the machines clanking and whirring from the ceiling, albeit she was a certainly unnerved, but wasn't surprised. Not until she could have sworn she heard someone groaning up there. It stopped her in her tracks and unsettled her so much she lost her appetite for the day. The house was dead silent when she heard it again, so there was no mistaking it this time.

It was definitely a masculine voice, and it sounded like someone up there was in a great deal of pain or having a nightmare of sorts. And, just to add to the tension and make sure Sprite lost sleep again, the unmistakable sound of Frank's shoes on the floorboards manifested a few moments after the groans started. If she stayed completely still and strained her ears hard enough, she could just make out the door opening and closing, followed by incoherent cooing - thought it sounded more like the person was being mocked and humiliated rather than comforted. But that was probably because she could barely hear any of it.

Now, a week after she arrived in her gloriously unceremonious way, and was beginning to receive indirect pressure to make a decision, a wonderfully coincidental turn of events had allowed her to scope out this potential crime scene for herself while completely undetected. If she saw something horrific and decided that she didn't want to risk her life, she could cheerfully thank them for all their service and put it down to an (albeit sudden) change of heart.

She rested her head against the wood of the laboratory door, willing herself to go in. This was also the only door in the whole house without a small window, another huge clue that she might actually get murdered for being in there.

Her palms were disgustingly sweating so much she actually had to use two hands to push the damn handle down. She eeeaaaasssseeeeddddd the door open and crept inside, nearly falling over from the ice cold shock of linoleum on her bare feet. She daren't turn on the lights. A complete fucking inbred would've turned on the lights. She was left to walk around with her hands outstretched in front of her, so far feeling nothing but thin air.

She could just make out a cuboid shape laid horizontally on the floor in front of her, and gingerly pushed against it with her foot.

The groan sounded again, ripping through the air in more of a wail of ear splitting agony than the muffled, sleepy groans she was used to hearing. She leapt a foot backwards but somehow managed to stay quiet, clumsily turning on her heel to bolt out of there and never, ever come back.

Her inhibitions had been right all along. They really were insane, criminally insane as if standard insanity wasn't bad enough. Keeping someone locked in here like an animal, clearly putting him in unimaginable pain and almost guaranteeing his death sentence. This was all without seeing a single thing, and now, she was certain she didn't want to see. Not now, not ever.

The worst part of this discovery was the realisation that she had been stupid, naive and desperate enough to let them fool her into thinking they cared about her.

Not twenty-four hours ago, she'd asked, 'Why are you doing this? I haven't done anything to deserve your kindness and hospitality, I literally could be anyone with any amount of evil intentions - I'm not,' she added hastily when the rest of the dinner table regarded her with a mixture of worry and amusement. 'I've never know anyone who doesn't give to receive, that's all.'

'Why ever wouldn't we want to help you, darling?' Frank had been the only one to respond after the others left it to him when they started clearing everything away and wandering off. 'I promise you there's nothing in it for us - although, if you'd like, we could say we couldn't bear to lose someone as stunningly beautiful as you if it helps your ego.' He laughed at his own joke and continued, 'No, but really, we aren't doing this for any reason other than to be nice and caring for you.'

He flashed her a smile, she went weak at the knees and that was that. No questions asked, not even a hint of insincerity. When all this time, they'd been sadistically torturing this wretched soul and she'd been wandering around with her head in the clouds the whole time. Blissfully and disgracefully ignorant.

Just before she reached where she thought the door was, another familiar sound set the floor swaying under her feet.

Heeled shoes. Platform shoes. Silver sparkly ones that, ironically, scored the first instance where she thought she would die at the hands of the same man.

Frank was coming down the hall and into the lab. She would be caught red-handed and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

In a frenzied fit of panic, she threw herself into the corner most obstructed from view by the door (the left, as it turned out) curled herself into a ball and said a collective prayer to every religious figure she could think of as the door opened and the lights turned on.

They sprang to life with an aggressive crank and a deafening whir, flooding the room in such a light that made Frank's lab abnormally bright in comparison to the rest of the castle. Pink walls, gleaming white floor, more naked marble boys (with speakers embedded into them this time) and far too many foreboding pieces of unfamiliar equipment. A fuck-off hole had been created (driven?) through the tiles in the far corner, and the thing she'd inspected earlier turned out to be a sizeable red tank. The dented, scratched lid had been secured with a pretty pink ribbon (much stronger than the type she was used to if whoever was in there was too weak to get out) tied in a feminine bow. It has been made to look like a birthday present, giving way to her suspicions of sickeningly childish incentives for all this madness.

A wide, pillar-box red bookshelf (containing suspicious looking jars rather than books - don't think about that, Sprite, you'll be sick) stood mere centimetres from her, which she scrambled behind immediately.

As far as she knew, he couldn't see her, but she could see him. A better arrangement there never was.

Frank didn't actually unite the ribbon, he had to cut the damn thing off with a knife. The lid was thrown to the floor with an awfully loud crash - and it was this scare that finally made her start crying. Not loudly, she had enough sense against that. Just the silent tears of God-help-me-I'm-actually-going-to-witness-something-straight-out-of-a-horror-movie-except-worse-because-it's-real-life terror.

The person inside immediately began to thrash around. Shoes scraped on the hard tank floor and chains rattled.

Chains? He's chained down in there?!

'What did I tell you about keeping the noise down?' Frank hissed through gritted teeth, leaning so far into the tank (subsequently right up in the man's face) that his entire head disappeared from view. 'I have been nothing but good to you! Given you food, water, a roof over you head, I even bartered your disgusting needles for you, and this is the thanks I get? You try my patience and throw all my effort back in my face! I hope you know I'm making this a lot less painful than it could be. Than it should be, after your behaviour.'

Can I just wake up now? Sprite thought numbly, an exhausted haze permeating her senses. Please let this all be a horrible dream.

Once Frank stood up, the light could flood into the tank, and turn the red walls slightly transparent. Sprite now had the perfect view of the silhouette of this man - left alone while Frank calmly selected something that looked like a pizza cutter but was probably much, much worse.

The silhouette began to shake. He made a feeble attempt at breaking free of his chains but it was futile. Sprite couldn't help thinking, even in the current situation, that this was a very large man. He appeared rather wide and unshapely - although would anyone look page three ready if they'd been in the lair of a mad scientist for however long? Fully clothed, shoes on, leather jacket creaking, this man knew he was about to die (or, even worse, wish he had died).

Sprite was literally about to witness an innocent person get dismembered. Frank, charming, entertaining, beautiful Frank was about to literally butcher another human being right in front of her eyes and she would have no choice but to sit there and watch.

She found herself fervently praying for him. Religion and science don't usually mix, but what can you do.

Until the hostage's head snapped toward her sharply and his eyes locked with hers. A split second, that's all it was. A split second too long, it seemed, as Frank's merry whistling - really? Whistling?! - stopped abruptly and he looked as well.

It was so weird, she scribbled down on a piece of scrap paper hours later before she could forget. 'I had this sort of numbing acceptance that I was going to die. I wasn't angry or scared or regretful. I wasn't anything. I was just existing, as my mind and my body somehow simultaneously caught on that I wouldn't be for long.

Frank crossed the room excruciatingly slowly. One foot perfectly in front of the other, each step echoed around the room like gunshots. Or nails in her coffin, either worked.

He resembled nothing more than a cat stalking a... well, a mouse.

She stayed at low as she could without laying on the floor and curled herself up into a tight ball. Frank stopped directly in front of where she was hiding. She'd already been caught, he was teasing her now. Building up the anticipation until it was ostentatious, so when it finally peaked, she would wish he killed her on the spot and he'd wish it would never end.

The silence lasted a fair amount of time, and Sprite dared to believe she might have gotten away with it. Until he shoved the entire unit to the side with one hand as easily as pulling curtains.

He's strong?, her mind squeaked feebly, how could he be that strong? I didn't know he was that strong. If he could push a marble bookcase with one hand imagine what he could do to me!

'My goodness me,' Frank murmered, sinking down to her level. 'How long have you been down here, little mouse? Enjoying the show?' He smiled and stroked a stand of hair behind her ear.

'I can explain,' was the only pathetic thing she could blurt out.

Oh, I'm sure you can...' Frank tutted at her quivering form disapprovingly before hauling her to her feet by both hands. 'Come alone, then, this way.' He was taking this remarkably well, gently leading her away with a calm, if condescending, tone of voice. She instinctively leaned towards the tank for one last look. 'Ignore that,' Frank ordered in the same dangerously calm tone.

She said nothing as she was led away for what would either transpire as her murder or the worst punishment she'd ever revived in her life. He even kissed the top of her head as he turned the lights off and closed the door, mutilation forgotten.

Sprite didn't even react when she was shoved hard against the wall of Frank's bedroom - even the hot, sticky sensation of blood trickling from a fresh gash in her head didn't make her cry out. She knew it would happen, and honestly she couldn't even deny she deserved it.

She jolted as Frank's hand snaked around her neck. A curling caress, of all things. The fingers teasing at the nape of her neck could easily tighten, chocking the life out of her and probably snapping the bones clean in two after the way he'd handled that bookcase.

'Celeste, baby,' Frank said in a mock-serious tone. The only thing the real world had in common with this den of iniquity was the use of her real name meant deep trouble. Deep trouble indeed.

He placed his mouth against her ear and whispered heatedly, 'Now, if anyone else was ballsy enough to deliberately disobey me, to be sneaky and sly, to skulk around in the dead of night behind my back,' she whimpered had he pressed himself even tighter against her, painfully forcing her body against the wall and worsening the wound on her head, 'they would most certainly be replacing the poor sap I've got begging for his life right now.' He sighed, pulling back and smiling at her. 'But you, artful and obstinate as you may be, happen to be my favourite. So, my lamb, my beauty, my darling, I'm prepared to give you a choice.'

It sent an awful thrill down her spine. She swallowed hard. She didn't tear her eyes away from her perpetrator's dark, intense ones, but her racing heart and churning stomach proved that she really, really wanted to.

'You stay here, with me,' Frank began in a perfect reasonable voice that shows no sign of whatever raging malice was coursing through his veins, 'let Frankie look after you, keep you out of harm's way and give you whatever you need...and we can forget that this whole thing ever happened. Tell not a soul of what you saw, put it all from your mind and we carry on as normal. Nobody else need know. One tiny secret in exchange for your life back.'

Still, she said nothing. Her mind frenzied desperately, but a veil of disassociation hindered her ability to process it.

'Or...', his voice turned back into that villainous croon used on the suffering individual that would forever be synonymous with imminent agony for her now. 'You can leave. I will escort you out myself, you'll be free to...', he shrugged, searching for an idea. 'Go back to school, travel the world, do anything your pretty little head desires.' He flicked her temple, grinning wickedly. 'However, I will personally make sure you get your comeuppance, my girl. Just because you can't see me doesn't mean I'm not there. I guarantee, on my mother's grave, I will make you suffer. As for the longevity of your punishment...unfortunately for you, that's up to me.'

Perfect. Just wonderful, what on earth had she done to deserve this? As it currently stood, she could agree to play dumb for an unforeseen amount of time in order to preserve her life, forfeiting any kind of future she had so earnestly yearned for all this time. Sacrificing her ambitions and her sanity. Having something like that on her conscience, that would kill her as surely as if Frank had butchered her after all. Or, she could go back out into the world with a chance to expose them and do the right thing, but honestly, who would believe her? She could achieve everything she wanted, but with the mentality of an inmate on death row. Always on edge, paranoia to the extreme. Just waiting to have her legs broken or smothered in her sleep.

Both choices were calculated to be painfully contradictory. Childlike hopefulness or crushing acceptance. Stay quiet or become institutionalised. Be killed or kill herself.

Either way she chose, she couldn't win. Whichever path she chose now, it would sentence her to death.

'A question on sport?' Frank snapped, who's face was hard but whose eyes were glittering in cruel amusement.

She didn't give him a verbal answer. She finally acknowledged everything that had just transpired and broke down crying instead. She clung to the madman in front of her and buried her face in his chest in a completely selfish act that lacked any and all sense of bravery, morality, and integrity.

A tiny voice in her head cheerfully suggested to just play along for now and pull out the aces when the time is right! What aces, she didn't have any aces. A full house demolished by a royal flush.

'Shh, it's alright...it's all gone now, you're fine. Calm down now, everything's going to be alright.'

He manoeuvred them both (with Sprite clinging on with both arms and legs, refusing to let go) to sit on the end of the bed and held her more protectively, shifting her to sit more comfortably in his lap.

In the spirit of a brain-freeze getting worse before it got better, a full blown panic attack overtook her before she eventually quietened down into soft whimpers and little snuffling noises. Partly induced by the warning tone of the final 'Hush now...' before she relaxed against him with a shuddering sigh.

'There...', he cooed, pressing his lips against her forehead. 'Better?'

She whispered, 'I feel sick.'

'It's the shock, darling, you'll get over it. Need anything else?' She shook her head. 'Would you like me to stay?' She shook her head again, much more vigorously this time.

Oh, goodness no, she thought numbly, could you imagine that? It would finish me.

'Mmm, well, if you're sure you're okay...' He was doubtful. Very doubtful.

'I'm fine, honestly.' She mustered some kind of heavenly strength to speak normally and stand up all at once. 'I just want to be on my own.'

'Of course you do, darling.' He raised an eyebrow. 'Although, if only you'd been a good little girl and done as you were told, you wouldn't have anything to be upset about, now would you?'

She shook her head no with a quiet little smile and went back to her room, trembling all the way.

Three days. Three days passed and she couldn't remember a goddamn thing. It was like she sat down on her bed, blinked, and was on her knees staring at a very familiar pair of shoes.

Initially, she feared the obvious had occurred. Perhaps the stimulation had woken her from her shutdown? But she slowly realised she was, in fact, back in the lab. Bruises were beginning to form on her knees and she had just finished crying about something. No tears or hitched breath. It was the unmistakeable, utterly exclusive sensation of feeling empty and full at the same time.

'Affecting you that much, is it?'

She jumped. Why did she jump? She knew he was there. He ran a hand through her hair and pouted sympathetically. 'Oh, you poor thing. Well, I might have something...'

He went rummaging through all the ominously unlabelled cupboards and jars, occasionally hissing in frustration. She slowly got to her feet, having absolutely no idea how she got there, how long she'd been there, or what on earth she'd said.

The tank had since been nailed shut.

'Ah, you're in luck, Lessie, I think I've found just the thing.' He tossed a small bottle of pills - nothing different from the Paracetamol or Ibuprofen she'd take at home - into the air and caught in one handed. Tapped two into her shaking palm and couldn't resist patting her on the head as he did so.

Suddenly, it all clicked.

Her entire being couldn't cope with everything she'd been subjected to. Her mind checked out and her body somehow, miraculously, kept going. Whatever had transpired during her trama induced hiatus had led her to throw herself at Frank's feet and beg him to help her forget.

'How will I know if it's worked?' She asked skeptically.

'Because you won't remember, silly!'

'But how am I supposed to know it's worked if I don't remember it's supposed to have worked?'

He shook his head. 'Because,' he exhaled in annoyance, 'you'll go right back to normal. We'll have our favourite little mouse back, of course. Even Columbia's worried about you now and she doesn't like anyone.' Jokes aside, he crossed his arms and stepped right up to her. 'So do you want it or not?'

She studied the tabs. Half green, half black like the chocolate bar. Realistically it could be anything, or it could be nothing. Placebos and all that. She might die if she ingested these. Honesty though, would that be such a terrible thing?

Reading her mind, Frank said, 'It's that or nothing, Lessie. You're just going to have to trust me.'

Oh. Ooooohhhh she didn't like that one bit. She mentally crossed herself and dry-swallowed both simultaneously. She grimaced as they went down. Dry and salty, like cardboard.

'Good girl. Wasn't hard was it?' He tousled her hair as he always did and sent her on her way with a light thwack to her backside as she was going.

Sprite had been blessed, but she wasn't safe. No, far from it. She wouldn't remember, but...God, the universe, fate, whatever one might call it certainly would. She was forever campaigning against class or status excusing someone from facing the consequences of committing a crime. That was before she dreamed of getting herself into that situation. Now, like most instances, she rather wished she'd just kept her mouth shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I declare this can of worms open.
> 
> Alma Oakley


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sprite and Frank get it on at long last. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Two thousand one hundred and ninety hours. Ninety one days. Thirteen weeks. Three months. The length of time, to the day, since that definitely-character-forming-potentially-character-destroying event occurred. And in that time, Sprite had:

Been Seduced by The Master of The House. Many, Many Times.

The door handle jiggled, startling Sprite so much she nearly fell out of bed due to its impossible loudness. An impatient knock followed soon after. She got out of bed to answer it, but was soon stopped in her tracks.

'Lessie?' Franks stern voice filtered into the room. It didn't even stir a reaction in her, she just closed her eyes and sat down on the foot of her bed in careless defeat. 'Darling, what have I told you about locking this door?'

That was a deeply unsettling pet hate of Frank's. He couldn't stand when people locked doors (exclusively bedroom doors, for obvious reasons she forbid herself from thinking about), and repeatedly tried to enforce that he should have full control. The hypothetical authority included which door, the duration of time before the door could be unlocked, and whether or not anyone was inside at the time of the locking.

Sprite didn't know about anyone else, but she paid no heed to that.

She had purposefully locked it after everything that went down in the lab - why was it so hard to have a mental breakdown in peace? - but Frank, apparently, had other plans.

Sprite had no choice but to command her legs (shaky as they may be) to carry her to the door and noisily unbolt the latch.

Before she could even blink, the swinging door nearly took her out, she was hoisted to the man's waist in one swift movement (paying testament to the inhuman display of strength she'd had the displeasure of witnessing first-hand) and thrown backwards on to the bed with a breathless grunt.

She wasn't a bit scared. She knew it would happen, she'd almost been wanting it to happen. She knew it was an awful, insulting thing to say, but she honestly would have preferred to be initially punished with this. At least she'd know what to do.

Still, she still couldn't help but squeak, 'What are you doing?', as experience told her to bat her large eyes, elongate her legs and chew her lips pink, but instinct told her to look self-conscious, appalled and terrified.

Licking his lips, he purred, 'We have to test it somehow...' as he slowly crawled on top of her.

Frank hadn't told her how long it took for the pills to take effect, nor the total longevity of those effects. He evidently planned to fuck her senseless all night, for if she didn't remember that in the morning, there's no way she'd remember a tiny, insignificant experiment.

He pinned her wrists to the mattress, trapped her between his legs and asked her if it was her first time. Complete lie, but she nodded yes anyway. A totally on-the-spot, improvised endeavour to make her seem more believable was to worriedly ask him if it would hurt.

Smiling, he shook his head. He crossed-his-heart-and-hoped-to-die he'd be gentle and buried his face in her throat. A fine line, Sprite thought as she stared at the ceiling and distractedly scratched his dark curls, between luxuriating under sensual kisses and having her jugular ripped out by those perfect teeth.

Her clothes were ripped off as easily as tissue paper - these are new! I've only worn them for a few hours, they were clean on today! - and couldn't help moaning over the sensation of his burning mouth and scratching fingers all over her sensitive skin. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of pleasuring her, but it seemed it couldn't be helped.

Tugging on his hair to bring him up for a sensual kiss made him chuckle (a low, filthy sound) into her mouth, and having both breasts kneaded by those soft hands made her whimper into his.

He chased her tongue right into the back of her mouth, rubbing is and sucking on it until she was pitching and writhing beneath him. Both parties couldn't help giggling in between their lustful administrations, but the reasons couldn't have been more perfect to define each character: Sprite was heavily entertained by the sensation of their noses brushing together and loved how it tickled so much, and Frank relished over the amount of power he had over her and how easily she could be manipulated into doing exactly what he wanted.

The kiss was broken, much to the disappointment of the girl (inhibitions be damned - she deserved a good time after all the shit she'd been through lately) and was unnerved into staying completely still by Frank's expression as he stared down at her: incredibly amused and deeply satisfied.

'Are you nervous?'

She shook her head.

'More?'

She nodded - her eagerness surprising and disgusting even herself.

He drew his face close to hers again, taking his teeth along her earlobe and inserting his tongue inside. Grinding against her at the same time set the shimmery corset rubbing against her exposed flesh like sandpaper. She arched her back and whimpered, trying her best to reach behind him and pull feebly at the ties.

'Oh, you want me to take this off?' He traced his lips along her jawline and chuckled into the crook of neck.

She nodded again, the intensity apparently preventing her from using her voice.

He bit her shoulder, sucking out a monster bruise before responding. 'Mmm. It'll take quite a while, are you sure?' Her arousal was become unbearably now - tears of want were beginning to sparkle in her eyes. Upon seeing this, Frank feigned sympathetic innocence and said, 'Oh, you're ready to go, aren't you?'

He could see the physical repercussions of her all-encompassing need for him, even in the limited light. He hooked his finger under the waistband of her damp underwear - the single scrap of clothing covering her decency - and watched as, after snapping it against her thigh, her expression twisted in pure determination to not cry out again. Perhaps the naive little thing was embarrassed.

He pouted, cooing, 'Well, who could resist that little face?', and began undressing. Making a show of it of course, not taking her eyes off her as she didn't still at all, feeling particularly intense effects of her arousal.

Taking each other in their arms again rolled a wave of an altogether different kind of pleasure with the feeling on their bare torsos rubbing against each other. This was no longer teenage fooling-around, this was proper, grown-up activities.

Frank began kissing her body again, alternating between biting and blowing cold air over her favourite areas. At the time, she was too consumed with pleasure to wonder how he knew that.

He took the waistband of her underwear between his teeth, teasing her by gently tugging on it and tickling her legs as he did so.

She raised her hips to encourage him and whimpered until he stopped playing and threw the garment somewhere out of sight - with a sly smile, he asked her to kindly close her eyes as he removed his, as if he even knew the definition of the word self-conscious.

Frank made her wait even longer by sitting on his heels and studying her, drinking in every last detail of her body with no barriers to instruct his view. Her smooth, creamy flesh was positively delectable - not a blemish or imperfection in sight. Shiny, silver hair framing her pale, heart-shaped face beautiful. Perfectly identical ringlets, gently curling to a stop just above her shoulders.

Despite having done this a thousand times before, Sprite never quite got used to being completely defenceless and vulnerable in front of another person. The instinctual thing to do was to cover herself, but Frank wordlessly shook his head before she'd even reached for the covers. Reading her mind, as always.

His obviously appreciative inspection of her body made Sprite even more painfully aroused than she already was, and her lustful haze distracted her from seeing what Frank was actually doing until it was too late.

Firmly caressing all the way down from the base of her throat, Frank's long and clever fingers were suddenly, startlingly, in between her legs. In an instant, he had her, and all she could do was buck and shriek and hang on to him for dear life. He was merciless in the meantime, playing her like a harp, exploring and playing in all the agonisingly right places.

And just just just as she was about to go over (for what she assumed would be the first of many that night) he left her. She couldn't suppress a strangled whimper of frustration and nearly kneed him in the face when he put his mouth on her instead.

That would've gone over like a sack of bricks.

He tantalised her with his lips and tongue, making her belong to him, emptying her mind of all thoughts except that of him. His lips and his eyes and cock.

She made more noise that she ever had before, not caring one bit of the other housemates heard her (actually, she would have preferred that they did and slyly hoped that they'd be jealous) and lost her senses for a beat or two somewhere in there, so delirious with pleasure, was she.

The door opened.

Sprite shrieked and even Frank jumped, shifting around to address whoever had so rudely interrupted.

Magenta drew back sharply when she realised what was happening. From her rightful place on the other side of the door she said, 'Oh, I'm truly sorry, please pardon my intrusion. I'll...come back later.'

Her brisk, purposeful footsteps quickly faded away into silence. Sprite allowed a few more beats to pass before she peeked through her fingers. She saw Frank getting up to leave and tore apart the tranquility with what could only be described as a wail.

She seized Frank's hand in both of hers as hard as the desperation seized her. He was adjusting his hair in the mirror (subsequently looking at his reflection, so diverting his attention at all was a miracle in itself), and apparently possessed much shame as he did modesty. He was planning to walk out completely starkers, parading what (Sprite found herself thinking this was the strangest concoction of mortification and pride) she had done to him to everyone else in the house.

'You can't leave me like this.' She spoke through gritted teeth. 'Don't you dare leave me like this.' An agonising surge of complete need coursed through her unexpectedly, causing her to throw her head back, arch her back and gasp for breath before she was able to continue. She whispered, 'Please don't go.'

It was torture for her now. Exhausted, writhing, panting. Inhaling the reek of want and feeling the pangs of humiliation. She was a complete, desperate mess, dripping with sweat and tears at the thought of having to ride this entirely unheard of (and certainly unwelcome) bodily reaction to the acts she could probably perform in her sleep.

Why was it - why was _he_ \- having an effect of this magnitude on her? She didn't know, she was too far gone to properly question it. The only concrete thought she could process was how much she wanted it to stop.

'There, there...shh...' The caring, gentle tone he usually adopted with her was replaced with stomach-churning patronisation. He leaned in close again, tenderly stroking her warm, damp hair. His smile was more of a sneer as he humoured her by skimming his fingertips lightly over her tongue. 'Everything will be okay, my little mouse...don't fret, my sweet...'

She only just managed to ask, 'Are you going to stay?'

He leaned in and bit her earlobe. 'What's it worth? Hmm?' He caressed her bare torso, just barely brushing so that it tickled slightly as he condescend her again. 'You won't remember this in the morning, anyway, why should I reward you when your behaviour has been so appalling?'

'I'll do anything.' She heard herself begging for sex like a common whore. She would've broken down in sobs of utter despair and self-hatred had she been in control of anything. 'I won't forget. I'll do whatever I need to make that happen. I'll keep your secret, I'll do whatever you may want.' In a tiny, defeated whisper, she pleaded, 'Just please don't abandon me in this state.'

'Well...' He pretended to think deeply about the offer. Toying with her even more when he already had her in the palm of his hand. 'I think that's just too good of a deal to pass up.'

A man of his word, Sprite couldn't deny that. Frank gave her everything she wanted and more. He answered to every burning desire her body ached for, and even some she didn't even realise she wanted, all with a unique kind of white-hot passion she'd never even dreamed of before. Overwhelming her with ecstasy, taking her to the very brink of what she believed, and just when she thought she reached her peak of peaks, he took her to new heights. Over and over again, all night long.

She came fourteen times.

Vomited Eleven Times

In the early hours of the morning after the night before, Sprite was yanked from her bed and hauled to the en suite, where a sharp kick to the back of the legs brought her down hard to her knees. She clunked her chin painfully on the rim of the bowl as the toilet seat went up. Dizzy and disorientated from being woken up too fast, with no idea where she was or what the fuck was going on, she barely had time to register Frank holding her hair back with one hand and sticking his fingers down her throat with the other.

She was sure nobody enjoyed being sick (although she knew quite a few people with fetishises for it), but Sprite really detested it. Her biggest fear in the whole entire world was to vomit. If someone was ill, and was vomitting, she refused to be near that person and would only go back once she knew for certain (as in, they swore an oath) that they were feeling better. If she ever did vomit, she cried, she freaked out, she just couldn't handle it.

Which is exactly what happened after she heaved up three whopping great jugfulls into the toilet at seven in the morning.

Frank wiped the excess from her chin with a towel and did it again.

She tried to lean away this time but she wasn't fast enough. Frank put the whole traumatic, unattractive, degrading ordeal twice in a row for his own psychopathic enjoyment. He rubbed her back as she spat the last of it out, giving her a few hearty slaps.

'That's it, get it all up...a'da girl...', he blotted the feverish, cold sweat from her forehead as she shuddered and gasped helplessly, saying in the cheeriest tone Sprite had ever heard, 'We wouldn't want any pesky additives interfering with our promises, now, would we?'

It all clicked for her then. It all made sense with an incredible swooping sensation in the pit of her stomach that threatened to make her vomit even more violently than she already had done.

Last night, in a fit of passion, she'd declared that she would do anything to prove her desire for Frank, and fatally promised to revoke her decision to artificially remove the memory if it meant Frank would stay there and pleasure her. Never mind that she had been so consumed and utterly delirious with lust that she barely remembered her own name, Frank took every word she said literally out of pure spite. He was now challenging Sprite to keep that promise by forcing her to get rid of the pills in the only way she could: by forcing herself to vomit until she brought the medication back up.

She was more prepared the third time around. As hard as she could, Sprite jerked her head away and tried to scramble backwards, screaming, 'Stop it!', as she did so. She screamed, half out of intensely distressed frustration and half out of searing pain in her scalp - Frank used both hands on her hair to stop her getting away, and it felt like he pulled half the lot out in the process.

'Now, darling,' he warned with a reproachful, you're-old-enough-to-know-better look. 'There's no sense in making this more difficult than it has to be.'

'You're an animal,' she spat, feeling like she was going to faint. 'You're a sick, twisted individual who needs serious help.' Come to think of it, he was the help. How terrifying.

'Lessie, baby, you can pretend to hate me all you want, but you and I both know you wouldn't last one day without me now. Not after you know what I can give. But,' he sighed dramatically, 'if you really don't like it here, you know where the door is.' He smirked as a flash of hope entered her sallow, tired eyes. 'Of course, unlike you, I intend to keep my promises.' Her heart sank. Even after all that, he was still fully prepared (and probably wouldn't have minded one bit) to hunt her down and torture her to death. 'Unless, of course,' he mused, half to himself and half to her, 'you don't beat me to it. Where will I find you, lamb, swinging from the banister or holding a pistol in your mouth?'

'You said you would keep me safe,' she murmured with zero emotion in her voice. Dull, lifeless, hopeless. Just like her future. She'd gotten herself into quite a few pickles before, but this one had to take the cake.

'And _you_ , filthy little whore,' Frank almost snarled as he moved right up to her and yanked her chin up to face him, 'said you would do whatever I may want for the taste of my cock in your mouth.' She whimpered dolefully. 'Now, get back over here and finish what you started before I do something I will regret.'

She covered her face and took a great, heaving breath. 'I want to do it on my own,' she said shakily.

He laughed. He actually laughed. It wasn't even an evil one either, it was a you-do-make-me-laugh-Lessie type of laugh. 'I see where this is going...' He said in a sing-song voice. 'Hang on, wait, don't tell me. Let me guess...the second I step over the threshold, you lock this door, might even go as far as to barricade it for some extra points, and you don't come out until you feel you might have to, otherwise you'll starve to death. Correct?' She didn't say anything. 'Thought so. Here. Now.'

Oh God, what is this? What am I even doing? What did I do to deserve this? Why am I putting up with this?

So many unanswered questioned to accompany the one she had when, on account of refusing to have fingers stuck down her throat again, Frank tickled the back of her throat with a quill's feather instead, and made herself sick over and over again until nothing but yellow, sour-tasting bile came up.

'That should do it,' Frank said quietly after what felt like an eternity of absolute misery. Sprite had since been drained of all energy, her throat burned and her body ached all over. She'd long stopped trying to keep it out of her hair, and was currently slumped over the bowl in a defeated, boneless heap, allowing her hair to dangle in it uncaringly. Frank patted her back once - what he deemed as a perfectly acceptable way to comfort this wretched girl. 'Flush it away and clean yourself up then. I've got some things for you to do today, and I won't have my house reeking like an infirmary.'

Frank only felt the tiniest pang of guilt as he left his rebellious little mouse, curled up and shuddering, on the floor of the bathroom, because the waste had soiled her gorgeous hair. How unfortunate.

He hummed a merry tune as he walked down the corridor (as he often did when no one else was around to hear him - imagine if anyone saw him with a sunny disposition, he had a reputation to uphold!), and smirked again as he saw the bottle of pills that had cause so much trouble lately.

Printed on the label, clear as day on the side of the container. _Leave an interval of at least thirty minutes before administrating the second capsule._

Poor, innocent, stupid little thing. Taking two at a time wouldn't have done anything.

Sustained Three Major Injuries.

Uncharacteristically, the dislocation of Sprite's right shoulder was completely unintentional, but it wasn't too hard to crack it back into place as she leaned in for one of countless dry heaves.

The second accident occurred a few weeks later when Sprite attempted to carry a full tea tray downstairs, even after Frank specifically forbade her from doing so. He knew how clumsy she could be, and his concern was only proved when she caught her foot on a lip in the carpet and took a rather grand tumble down the entire staircase. Frank was sympathetically annoyed with her when he found her sprawled on the floor in a pool of shattered tea cups, scalding hot Earl Grey and her own blood.

The final one occurred when she was wandering around with her nose in a book and walked headlong into a brass saucepan that was suspended above her head.

Formed An Unorthodox Friendship With Magenta.

Their companionship came about after Sprite begged and pleaded to be taught how to bake in the spectacular fashion that Magenta possessed a natural talent for. The maid eventually gave in (although she never dreamed of telling anyone she had begun to find the unusual girl intriguing and endearing for a while now), and guided her through the process of making a pavlova.

'Oh, boring,' Sprite had grumbled at first, until Magenta whispered that it was Frank's favourite. She didn't have much of a choice other than to enjoy it now. Sprite was disinclined to acknowledge how easily she could be manipulated by him - even when he wasn't around.

She taught her how to separate the egg whites ('Look, watch me first...empty the yoke between the two halves of the shell like that, you see?' Go on, you try it then. Over the bowl, you idiot!'), and delighted in teasing Sprite by holding the bowl upside-down over Sprite's head to prove how stiff the peaks were. Sprite succeeded in making the icing - she was immensely pleased with herself - and put it all into a piping back with a star shaped nozzle securely fastened on the end.

'Squeeze it gently,' Magenta instructed, holding the bag with her at first, 'and go out, and down. Out, and down.' They created a few perfect star shapes together until she let Sprite so it herself.

She was stupidly nervous over a cake, but Magenta took such pride in her domesticity that the girl would probably get murdered if she cocked up the piping now.

She had unconsciously been chanting 'Out, and down,' to herself as she was doing it, and Magenta had tears of laughter glimmering in her eyes by the time she was finished.

Magenta said she was a quick learner, praised her eagerness develop new skills and ruffled her hair - did Frank pick that up from Magenta or did Magenta pick that up from Frank? - before sending her on her way, suggesting that Sprite left the cooking to her from now on.

Formed An Intense Frenemy Relationship With Columbia.

Not, as most would assume, because of Sprite's unique, turbulent connection with Frank. They fell out initially after Sprite (who was so easily bored and always looking for something to entertain herself with) asked Columbia if she could teach her how to tap dance. She kept saying no, but Sprite wouldn't give up whining, and eventually she gave in.

She was handed a pair of Columbia's old, worn shoes (apparently dancers keep all of their old shoes - who knew?) and not five minutes in to learning the basic steps, Sprite lost her footing and twisted her ankle painfully.

Frank was trying to work at the time, which was probably why he overreacted, but he grilled Columbia to within an inch of her life even with Sprite calling from the background that it was her own fault for being uncoordinated.

They didn't speak to each other for the rest of the day.

Had Riff Raff Utter One Word Towards Her.

'Are you sleeping alright, Riff Raff?

'Yes.'

Acquired A Few New Nicknames.

Columbia had taken to calling her 'Tink' after the melodramic fairy companion from the iconic children's tale, and also liked to call her 'Bambi' after her large eyes and nervous disposition. The only interest the girls had in common was their unwavering obsession for all things related to Walt Disney.

Magenta was the only one who actively refered to her as Sprite, (and she loved hearing her say it in her funny accent) but also opted for 'Sylvie', after the distinctive colour of her hair.

It was a wild card with Frank. On some days they were nice ones, such as darling, baby, lamb, the old faithful Little Mouse and the ever-present Lessie. On other days they weren't as nice. Bitch, slut, whore, vermin. All that jazz. A new lucky dip every day.

With The Help of Columbia, Convinced The Others to Celebrate Christmas With Them.

Decorations were scarce and gifts were lacking, but they desperately tried explained the story and the sentimental value to everyone else, who thought it was funny to sit there smirking and condescending them for taking part in such childish endeavours. They won in the end, as - exchanging a triumphant smirk with one another - they knew they would.

As unorthodox as it was, it was actually such good fun - even though they had to make do with nothing but mistletoe and improvised Christmas crackers.

They explained the game, and could've played it for hours. They didn't realise it was supposed to actually crack, and poor Frank nearly went into cardiac arrest right there at the table. It brought out the aggressively competitive streak in all of them, and it was the most surreal thing Sprite had ever experienced.

They stopped playing after a used condom fell out.

Dabbled In The Art of Performing In An Orgy A Few Times.

It was certainly something, but Sprite preferred it when all the attention was on her.

Been Allocated A Job Role Within The Household.

Columbia was in charge of collecting groceries and other necessities, as well as scouting - whatever that was - Magenta cooked and cleaned for everyone, and Riff Raff assisted Frank in the lab. There was a time when Sprite would have liked to have done that herself, but she couldn't think of anything worse now.

Frank told her that if she wanted to stay in the household, she had to start pulling her weight. A few days later, he came rushing up to her and seized her by the shoulders in a frenzy of excitement. He really did look like a shark when he smiled crazily like that.

He dragged her to the library and instructed her to start reading from the various science textbooks crammed in the shelves. Almost like revision for a school exam, she was expected to study the information and document relevant extracts for Frank to store over time.

'...Right,' she began uncertainly, 'so I'm supposed to write down absolutely everything you might need, just incase you do?'

'Yes!' He replied as though it was the stupidest question in the world.

'Even if you never use it for anything?'

He echoed her statement in confirmation. 'It'll turn you into such a brain-box, regardless of what it's used for. You want to learn, don't you?'

'Yes, but-.'

'Perfect.' He pecked her lips softly. 'Thank you, darling.'

Told The Biggest Lie of Her Life.

Frank walked in to her room one day, smirking, holding his hands behind his back. One of his bad days. Already, she could tell.

'Recognise this?', he mocked, dangling a very familiar piece of technology in front of her.

'My phone?!', she shrieked, leaping from the bed after a period of dumbfounded silence. 'You've kept it from me this whole time?! I thought I lost it on the day I collapsed! Do you even know how many people are worried sick right now?'

'Settle down, Crawford, I doubt that very much.' She narrowed her eyes at him. 'Check it if you don't believe me.' She reached for it, but he snagged it away. 'Come on then, if you want it just take it.' She tried again and the same thing happened. 'Stop fooling around, it's right here!'

She wasn't finding it at all funny, and eventually dived at him. The next few minutes were filled with the two of the running around like children, with Frank holding it just out of her reach and expertly avoiding her scratches, taunting and teasing her with audacity to giggle the whole time.

She eventually wrenched it out of his grip, exclaiming, 'Fucking give it to me!', immediately darting well out of the way while Frank chided, 'Don't _snatch_!'

He let her have it anyway. Sprite, who had learnt a lot in the past few weeks, accepted it without complaint.

Frank was honestly very confused when Sprite paled and stumbled a few steps backwards.

'Over two hundred missed calls...?' She stated weakly.

'That's impossible,' Frank said. 'I mean it Lessie, it hadn't sounded once.'

She snapped, 'Because it was on flight mode, you _dick_. Preserves the battery.' She mumbled after the severe stare Frank gave her.

As multitalented as Frank was, modern technology was not his forte. 'What are you doing?', he asked her as she manipulated it confidently.

'I'm making sure people know where I-.'

'I don't think you are!', Frank admonished her. She looked up, fear in her eyes. 'What you're going to do, is use that to tell everyone that you're okay. Tell them you're safe and happy. Well looked after,' he tickled her under her chin antagonistically. 'You can make it as soppy and melodramatic as you want, but I'll be checking it before it goes off.' As a warning, he added, 'Be as vague as you can.'

She swallowed hard, feeling herself beginning to shake. 'Why do I have to be vau-.

'Because I said so,' he interrupted authoritatively.

'That's not right!'

'Neither's animal testing,' his response was bored and dry. 'My heart is bleeding for you, it really is, but you made these choices. Now honour them.'

She did it. Sprite hated herself more with every word she typed, but she did it anyway, as she really did leave herself no other choice.

It was either: do exactly as Frank told her from now on, or leave (like any dignified person with an ounce of self-respect would have done) and straight up fucking die.

What a time to be alive.

_Accepted That She Was Hopelessly Devoted to Frank With All His Malevolent Charm, Subsequently Forgiving Him For All The Indignities He Had Subjected Her To In Exchange For His Praise And Approval._

A few short days preluded the three month anniversary when she caught Frank coming out of the library and carelessly threw herself at him.

He caught her, grunting a little in amused surprise.

'Goodness me, that's a lovely welcome! What's all this?' Frank carried her back into the library and carefully sat down with her on the sofa. 'Something the matter?'

She shook her head against his chest. 'It's just been really hard,' she admitted tearfully.

'Hush, darling, I know. You've been through the mill recently, but I promise you it'll all start to get better now.' He held her at arms length and smiled kindly at her. 'I know it's been tough on you, lamb, but you know I only do these things because I _care_ about you so much. Do you understand me, flower?'

He was very gentle with her now, so similar to how he was before that it made Sprite want to cry. 'No, of course I understand. I just wish I could handle it easier.'

Sprite was unconsciously beginning to blame herself already. Pinning her numerous breakdowns on her being too weak and ignorant rather than being victimised by a criminally insane, scientifically genius cross-dresser.

What an interesting sentence. It was almost hysterical to think it was actually true.

'You must give it time, darling, we'll soon toughen you up.' He chuckled and gently tapped her on the nose. 'We got off to a rocky start but that's all in the past now. Truce?'

'Truce.'

They clasped hands and Frank planted a big, wet, resounding kiss on Sprite's forehead.

They engaged in a rather strenuous session of make-up sex that night (in Frank's own bedroom - what an honour!) and Sprite woke up in Frank's strong arms the next morning, engulfed in a false, trained, conditioned sense of happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. 
> 
> Welp, your friendly neighbourhood rocky horror enthusiast is not well. For anyone reading this on ff.net, I apologise. These guys haven’t left the house in months.
> 
> Thank you for my reviewers and those who have left kudos. 100+ hits already is something to be happy about, right? 
> 
> Alma x

**Author's Note:**

> Whew! First chapter down! I’m planning to update this twice a week, as I already have a multitude of chapters pre-written. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Feel free to leave comments and tell me what you think of this lil cesspool of late night ramblings hehe.
> 
> Alma Oakley.


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